


angel in black

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bounty Hunter!Cas, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, Eventual Happy Ending, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Past Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, References to Addiction, hunter!dean, minor homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 95,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Bounty hunter Castiel Novak has simple rules for how he conducts his business. Get in, get out, deliver the fugitive, and do it all with the least amount of effort possible. Never become emotionally involved.When he takes on the job of hunting down Sam and Dean Winchester in order to bring them to justice, his rules start shifting. Threatened by supernatural forces as well as his attraction to Dean, Castiel soon has to decide what he’s willing to stand for…and what he’s willing to die for.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 558
Kudos: 587
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. hunters

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my latest foray into the world of fanfiction! I'm about halfway through this baby, so expect semi-regular updates. <3 <3 
> 
> As always, if you want to find me on tumblr and shout at me, you can do so [here](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Enjoy!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel Novak sits at the bar in a dive that he normally wouldn’t give the honor of a first glance, let alone a second glance and watches the seconds tick away into minutes. In the glass before him, his beer fizzes with a resigned, lethargic feel, as though it too very much resents its presence here. An already noxious country song turns tinny in substandard speakers, and Castiel grits his teeth as the earworm of the chorus corkscrews its way into his subconscious. A heavy miasma of smoke hangs in an almost tangible cloud, invading Castiel’s nostrils with its sour stench. He tries to focus on something, anything, else. Unfortunately, only the sticky bar and greasy floor offer themselves up for additional perusal. Combined with the sweaty, unwashed mass of the bar’s patrons, the disgusting picture comes into full view. 

Castiel spends a few fervent seconds wishing his targets didn’t patronize the most sordid dive bars. Just once, he’d love to track down a target who enjoyed art galleries, ballet, or some form of entertainment that wouldn’t lead to him scrubbing cigarette smoke out of his hair and picking the remnants of peanut shells out of the treads of his shoes. The only bright spot in his night is the hope that it’ll soon be over. 

For now, he sits at the bar, poised on a stool while he takes careful sips from his drink. He uses the mirror behind the bar to keep careful tabs on the raucous crowd behind him. They call loudly for more rounds, then proceed to smash the glasses and bottles on the ground, then leering at the unfortunate waitresses forced to clean up their mess. Their laughter is loud enough to have a headache pressing insistently at the back of Castiel’s eyes. 

He’s counting down the minutes until Randy Salinger needs to take a piss or otherwise leave his cadre. If he were a little more reckless, or if Randy were a little more violent, then Castiel would have no problem marching over and interrupting his night. But for now, Randy is merely annoying, which isn’t a good enough reason for Castiel to pit himself against six men, most of which he’s willing to bet are armed. 

His own gun sits secure in his shoulder holster, hidden under his leather jacket. A smaller gun rubs against his ankle, while a knife presses against the small of his back. Every time he shifts, he can feel the cuffs in his back pocket digging into his skin. He runs through the inventory of his weapons, several times, until he’s satisfied. 

The mirror behind the bar provides Castiel with a perfect view of Salinger slapping a waitress’ rear end as she delivers another round of drinks to his table. She jerks forward and almost bobbles the tray but recovers enough to put the drinks on the table. Salinger attempts to wrap an arm around her waist, but she manages to twist and escape his clutches. The mirror doesn’t reflect her exact facial expression, but her clenched fists and short, choppy steps give evidence to her rage. She storms past Castiel’s stool and snatches the next round of drinks from the bartender. Her makeup is trying its best to turn her older, but if she’s a day over nineteen, then Castiel will eat the barstool. 

To pass the time, he runs through what he knows of his quarry. Randy Salinger, age 42, wanted for racketeering, drug possession, robbery, and underage prostitution. His dossier reflects a life of petty crime. Mr. Salinger has bounced in and out of prison so many times that Castiel is surprised he doesn’t have a frequency card stamped by the guards. 

There’s little passion in Castiel’s job and no time for righteousness or vengeance. In his line of work, it’s mostly get in, collect and deliver the target, and get paid. It’s a simple system which works by virtue of its very simplicity. But every so often, there’s a bounty which makes him take genuine pleasure in his job. This one, Castiel thinks he’ll enjoy.

Impatience fizzles across his nerves as he casts another glance to the group behind him. He’s going to have to make a move soon; he’s nursed his single beer long enough to send it to preschool and the bartender’s started shooting suspicious sideways glances his way. As soon as he finishes his drink, he’s going to either be asked to order another or leave, and he’d prefer not to order a second. With one beer in his system, he’s still an effective operator, reflexes mostly untouched. With two or more beers, his coordination and reaction times are affected just enough to lead to a mistake. In Castiel’s line of work, mistakes are sometimes deadly. 

It’s a conundrum to be sure, which is why he breathes a sigh of relief when Salinger starts bidding a noisy farewell to his companions. At the rate he’s going, it’s going to take him at least five minutes to finish, which leaves Castiel plenty of time to prepare. He flings a ten dollar bill on the bar and nods at the waitress. “Keep the change,” he tells her, acknowledging her grateful smile with a small nod. A generous tip is the least he can offer her for having to deal with scum like Salinger. 

Castiel ignores the rest of the crowd and noise as he slides towards the door. He quickly finds Salinger’s car, a garishly painted sedan, in the parking lot. A quick, pat-down inventory assures him that all of his equipment and weapons are still where they should be. Now all that remains is to wait. 

His timing was off. It takes Salinger seven minutes instead of five to bid his cohorts farewell. When he emerges from the bar, he’s stumbling and humming tunelessly to himself. The sickly glow of the flickering streetlight illuminates Salinger’s stumbling steps to his car, while crickets chirp softly in the background.

Salinger doesn’t notice Castiel until he’s a few steps away from his car. It’s comical to watch him straighten and roll his shoulders in an attempt to look intimidating. For all Castiel knows, the posturing might work on someone more susceptible to coercion. Castiel merely finds it pathetic, like a Pomeranian trying to dominate a Doberman. 

“Get yer ass offa muh car,” Salinger slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Randy Salinger?” Castiel asks, his voice light and pleasant. He already knows the answer, but he’s partial to procedure. 

“Yeah? What the hell do you want?” Randy steps forward, but underneath the swagger, there’s reluctance, like he’s only now starting to realize he might be in over his head. His bloodshot, piggy eyes narrow as he squints in Castiel’s general direction. While Castiel doesn’t allow physical appearances to guide his opinion of people, he’ll certainly allow the uncreative and physically impossible slurs that Salinger spits towards him to color all sorts of judgements. 

“You’re wanted by the state of Illinois for racketeering, possession with intent to distribute, armed robbery, and contributing to the delinquincy of a minor, along with second degree sexual assault. I’m a bail enforcement agent authorized to escort you to the nearest police station.” It’s the little things that give Castiel pleasure in life--the subtle tension found in the trigger, the mellow slide of a 30 year old scotch, the sudden fear in Salinger’s eyes. 

He tries to run. Most of them try to run. Castiel tackles Salinger before he makes it more than five steps. His knee scrapes the pavement, hard enough to tear skin, but more importantly, Salinger slams face-first into the gravel. His face seems to take the brunt of the hit and Castiel finds himself inordinately pleased by that fact. 

The click of the handcuffs is satisfying. The trickle of blood from Salinger’s chin when Castiel hauls him to his feet, more so. The knowledge that he’s going to deliver this asshole to the nearest jail and get paid? Priceless. 

It’s not necessarily an easy life, but it does have its perks. 

\---

The perks of a bail enforcement agent’s life do not include swanky digs. 

Castiel is reminded of this fact as he shoves open the door to his motel room with his shoulder. The door sticks, which is probably due in part to the fact that the motel refuses to pay for air-conditioning and also due in part to the fact that the motel looks to be roughly 150,000 years old. No doubt the ancient Romans stopped here on their way through the uncharted territory of Illinois. 

Once he slams the door behind him, Castiel takes off his boots, being sure to loosen the laces and leave them next to the door, just in case he needs to make a quick getaway. In his line of work, it always pays to be prepared. He’d once forgotten that lesson and woken up with a serial rapist holding a knife to his throat. The fight left him with a jagged scar on the side of his neck and a reminder to never let his guard down. 

Thankfully, most of his jobs lack that level of excitement. Bail-jumpers make up the majority of his work, and most of those are white-collar felons who don’t want to stand trial. Those kind of fugitives don’t fight back and in fact, tend to cry when apprehended. 

Unfortunately, unless they’ve stolen a lot of money from a lot of very important people, nonviolent bounties tend to have a paltry fee attached. The real money, the ‘buy a house and retire’ kind of money is reserved for those who bring in drug lords, murderers, kingpins, and mafiosos who could grease the right palm and buy their way out of a holding cell. And hunting those types of bounties results in occasionally waking up with a knife to the throat. 

Castiel collapses on the bed and brings out his phone to check the wire transfer. The numbers in his account are somewhat higher than they were formerly. It’s not by a significant amount, but it’s enough to put food in his belly and gas in his truck for the next few weeks. It’s not enough for him to take a vacation, so he pulls out his laptop and flicks onto the first database. He’s looking for easy prey, in Illinois, Missouri, Iowa, or Kansas. 

A few candidates catch his attention, but there’s nothing truly interesting. They’re nothing to inspire a devotion to law and order, but he might be forced to take a case if he wants to continue eating. 

“Damn it,” Castiel mutters as he flips through Ugly, Uglier, and Ugliest. A mental tally of his funds and expenses allows him to breathe a sigh of relief. He’s not under immediate pressure to take another job; there’s still about two week’s worth of money in his account. 

The tinny ring of his cellphone jangles through the room in a discordant ruckus. Castiel digs in his back pocket and answers without looking. “Yeah, Novak.” 

“Castiel.” At the sound of Michael’s voice, Castiel’s spine involuntarily straightens. He stifles his curse at the reaction, but doesn’t bother to fight it. That would mean overriding a lifetime of conditioning. He already tried to do that; it hadn’t ended well. “I hope that you’ve been well.” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” 

When he was a child, Castiel sometimes wondered what it meant to have a ‘normal’ childhood. He used to wonder if every kid called their older brother ‘Sir’,or if they snapped into parade rest when their brother entered a room. Now, at thirty-one, he knows that nothing about his childhood was normal. The knowledge doesn’t benefit him in the slightest; there’s nothing he can do to change it. 

“I saw that you had a successful night. Are you still in Illinois?” 

Castiel bites back the automatic flare of anger. Typical of his brother to use his job to keep tabs on him instead of picking up a phone and texting. Even more typical is him using the excuse of checking up on Castiel as a subtle threat:  _ I know where you are. I know what you have been doing. You have been seen.  _

Castiel keeps his voice light and sardonic and digs his fingernails into his palm so hard that he leaves little half-moon marks behind. “Well, I have to eat at some point.” 

Michael’s frustrated sigh threatens to blow the speakers of his cheap phone. “You know that you could have a steady, stable job if you just asked--”

“We’ve talked about this.” Not for the first time, Castiel is thankful for the miles between them. In person, he would never dare be so bold with his brother, but over phone lines, disobedience becomes easier. “You know I don’t want that.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind, you know that I can help you. Any department or field office would be lucky to have you.” Michael sounds peevish, which doesn’t surprise Castiel. As one of the assistant chiefs of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Michael’s unaccustomed to being told no. 

“I’m aware.” 

Michael doesn’t deign to respond, which is probably for the best. An uncomfortable silence settles, which usually occurs any time the brothers speak. Castiel relaxes his fingers and counts off the seconds until he can hang up the phone. 

Michael clears his throat. “As much fun as catching up has been, I actually did have a reason for calling you.” Castiel’s interest sharpens. Normally, this is the part of the conversation where Michael makes up a bullshit excuse and disappears from the conversation, though not before dropping a hint that he’s Big Brother in practice as well as in name. This, however, is new and Castiel does love novel things. 

“Go on,” Castiel prompts. He props himself against the motel pillows and settles in. He’d like to be comfortable for this next bit.

“I was hoping to use your professional connections.”

“You need me to do a job for you,” Castiel translates. 

“It’s not only for me, Castiel. You’d be getting a hefty payout, not to mention helping innocent people.” 

“Stuff your altruism and stop pretending like you care about either me or your innocent people. Who’s the guy?”

Michael tsks disapprovingly, but then relents. “Two guys. Dean and Sam Winchester. Take a second and look them up.” 

The names sound vaguely familiar to Castiel, and after checking the database, he understands why. Dean and Sam Winchester have the dubious honor of having a long list of warrants issued to them in Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, and Illinois. The more he gets acquainted with them, the higher Castiel’s eyebrows rise. 

“What kind of sociopaths are you after?” 

The charges of murder and assault are troubling. Every time a violent offender comes up on the docket, Castiel’s adrenaline spikes. The credit card fraud isn’t surprising. Even felons need additional ways to pad their wallets. But the last counts…

“Grave robbing and desecration of a body? What are we talking about here?” Dozens of images, none of which are pleasant, fill Castiel’s head. 

“They dug up several bodies in a graveyard and burned them. Kerosene and the whole nine yards. Left whatever parts remained just sitting in the graves.”

Castiel’s nose wrinkles in disgust. Who the hell are these people? The more he learns about them, the more he’s convinced that Sam and Dean Winchester need to be behind bars for everyone’s sake, but logistics still apply. 

“I don’t know if I can handle both of them at the same time. From the looks of these records, they’ve managed to overpower several officers sent after them.” Castiel isn’t a coward, but he’s pragmatic. There’s no point in rushing into a bad situation. 

“When are you going to start working with a partner? I’ve told you--”

“Yes, but seeing as I still work alone, let’s assume that I haven’t listened to your lectures. There’s no one else I trust to work this job with me, so you might as well stop complaining.” 

Castiel amuses himself by imagining the pissy, constipated look on Michael’s face. It probably looks like he’s shitting razors. Lovely. 

“They don’t travel everywhere together. I’m sure that they separate from each other at least once in a while.” 

Castiel pauses. There’s a strange persistence in Michael’s voice. “What’s going on?” Castiel asks, his senses sharpening. “What makes these two so important?”

“You saw their records. Do you really want these two roaming the streets?” Michael’s voice is forceful, but Castiel heard his hesitation. He knows his brother well, probably better than Michael wants to be known; he knows that Michael only pauses when he’s trying to think of a good lie. That Michael would lie to him is unsurprising. That Michael would seek to cover up a lie is more interesting. 

“There’s dozens of murderers, rapists, serial killers, and people with a hell of a lot worse on their rap sheet than two wanna-be lumberjacks cum models. What makes these two so special?”

The seconds tick away. In the quiet, Castiel the sounds of highway filter in through the stiff blackout curtains. 

“There’s been some talk around the office. Word is that the person who manages to bring the Winchesters in is going to have his choice of promotions. Not any crappy field office job either; this means a move to D.C. and to administration.” Castiel’s eyes roll towards the ceiling. He exaggerates the gesture so much that there’s a twinge of pain involved. Of fucking course there’s a promotion. Michael doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than a promotion. 

“And since when do I give a shit about any of that?”

Michael sighs. “You don’t. But I know you, Castiel, and I know you don’t want to let these two monsters go free.”

Michael knows where all of his weak spots are. He should; he created most of them. Through systematic campaigns, relentless lessons on what was right and wrong, what should and should not be allowed, he created a system of morals that Castiel can’t free himself of, even when he wants to. He doesn’t want to help his brother’s campaign to rule the world. He doesn’t want to put himself in danger, just so his brother can measure his dick against everyone else at the office. 

“If I take the job,” Castiel begins, trying to sound like he hasn’t already made up his mind, “then take the full commission. Plus, I’m going to charge every single expense to the office of the F.B.I.” 

“Of course,” Michael says, agreeable once it looks like he’s going to get his way. 

“And this is it,” Castiel says, his voice turning to steel. The commission was never the problem; Michael was always going to let him have the money. Power has always been Michael’s vice of choice. “If I take this job, after this, we’re done.” 

A low rumble of displeasure growls through the line. Castiel can only imagine Michael’s expression. Like a coward, he’s happy he doesn’t have to witness it in person. “Castiel--”

“No, I’m serious. I’m not your fucking errand boy hunting down your handpicked criminals or a stair step you can use to get your damned promotion. I’m not here for you to use. I’ll do this last job, and then we’re done.”

“Castiel,” Michael begins, his tone wavering between indulgence and anger. “You know that’s not what this is--”

Castiel clicks his tongue against his teeth as he works at his belt buckle, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. “This is the longest conversation we’ve had in two years, and it involves you asking me for a favor. So forgive me if I’m not convinced of your fraternal love.” 

“Castiel. Don’t do this,” Michael warns. 

Castiel’s jeans hit the floor. The tepid air of the motel air conditioner washes over the bare skin of his calves and thighs, raising goosebumps in its wake. “As the person asking me for a favor, I don’t think that you’re in a position to dictate terms.” He puts Michael on speaker and tosses his phone on the bed. 

“Is that what you think? Well, let me say, as the person who raised you and sent you to college, and then watched you piss away every scholarship and opportunity thrown your way, and the person who kept you out of jail and picked you out of every alley and watched you sweat through withdrawals….As that person, I think I’m exactly in a position to dictate terms.” 

Castiel freezes halfway through yanking his shirt off. He tries not to, but his eyes are drawn inexorably to the crook of his elbow. Faint marks mar the soft skin, almost invisible, but not quite. They’ll never be gone and Castiel will never forget how each of them was made, the same as he will never forget the feeling of simultaneously flying and falling. 

“Fuck you.” He’s proud of how calm he keeps his voice and how he doesn’t start shaking until he sits down on the bed. 

He punches at the screen to end the call with uncommon viciousness. He hopes that will calm him down, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough when he chucks the phone across the room, hard enough to crack the screen and create a dent in the motel wall. “Fuck!” he spits, running his fingers through his hair for lack of any other response. 

Castiel shakes, huge, full-body trembles rocking through him. He doesn’t know what he needs most: a good hard fuck, a good hard fight, or a good hard drink. He knows what he  _ wants-- _ the pinch and throb of a tourniquet, the soft pain of a needle sliding home, the sweet bliss of oblivion as the world fades away into nothingness. 

In the end, Castiel settles for a shower so hot it hurts. His skin screams as the water pounds over it, but Castiel grits his teeth and savors the sting. He stays underneath the spray until he’s hurting so badly he can’t feel anything. Only then does he fumble for the handle. The water comes to an abrupt stop and Castiel shivers in the sudden cold. He presses his forehead against the tile, stifling an empty, dry sob as his skin prickles back into awareness. 

He towels himself off and stumbles back into the room. The boxers and t-shirt he wriggles into do nothing to shield him from the cold, and he’s shaking so violently his teeth clack. He’s just about to curl up under the covers when the sight of his laptop, still open on the bed, makes him pause. The unsmiling faces of Sam and Dean Winchester stare up at him from the screen. Caught in their gaze, Castiel pulls the laptop closer to further examine their profiles.

He starts with the younger of the brothers. Sam Winchester has a kind face. He looks like the sort of person who would offer to carry someone’s bags to their car. Castiel reads through his short biography once, and then again, then a third time when he still fails to glean any sense from it. There’s no explanation for how a man went from valedictorian of his high school and a full ride to Stanford University to a wanted fugitive with a rap sheet as long as Castiel’s arm. Sam Winchester had everything going for him and opportunities which Castiel could only dream of, only to throw everything away. 

Disturbed, Castiel pulls up the second profile. Dean Winchester’s face is a study in contradictions. His mouth stretches in a smarmy grin but his eyes glare at the camera. His whole demeanor screams insolence and something in Castiel rankles at the sight. While there’s something almost apologetic in Sam Winchester’s picture, Dean Winchester seems to take pride in his ill deeds. His background reads differently than his brother’s. From the age of thirteen he was in and out of juvenile facilities. By seventeen he was a high-school dropout. He did manage to get his G.E.D., but he never kept the same address for longer than three months at a time and has no employment records to speak of. His arrest records read like a laundry list: traffic infractions, drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, assault, and then the  _ Do not pass Go, do not collect $200  _ crimes.

Castiel reads over the profiles until he has them memorized. There are a handful of possible sightings of the Winchester brothers, along with a series of suggested M.O.’s. It seems that wherever these two go, death and destruction follow in their wake. For three years, the Winchesters have cut a swath across the heartland and left a trail of bodies behind them. While the idea of doing anything to further Michael’s career sits in his belly like a swarm of bees, Castiel can’t deny the world would be a safer place if the Winchesters were behind bars. 

He crawls into bed, but there’s no peace there. He can’t stop thinking about what drives a man with the world before him into crime, and he can’t stop thinking about the almost cruel twist to Dean’s smile. He can’t stop thinking about Michael’s offer and the chill in his voice as he reminded Castiel of his every deficiency. He can’t stop thinking about the line of scars on his inner elbow and the dark part of him still sick with wanting. 

Restless and heart-sore, Castiel eventually falls into a fitful, reluctant sleep. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

If he doesn’t get away from Sam, then Dean might be the first Winchester to commit fratricide. Two weeks ago, he would have choked on the idea, but tonight, he can start to see the appeal. They’ve been traveling, running, hunting, whatever you want to call it, for two weeks without a single break. And here’s Sam Winchester, ready to spend Night Fifteen with musty books and shotguns, with nary a break in sight. 

“No,” Dean says plainly when Sam settles at the small table in the kitchenette of their room. “No. Not tonight. We are going out tonight, we are getting a beer, I am probably getting laid, and you are at least going to become acquainted with Susan and her four sisters.” 

“Dean,” Sam begins, in the particular condescending tone that makes Dean want to give him a dead arm, “you know that we--”

“Oh shut up.” Dean rolls his eyes. When Sam’s lip curls in irritation, he makes sure to do it again. “We’re in Buttfuck, Nowhere and we haven't’ run into any problems for two weeks. What do you think is going to happen?”

The look Sam gives him is incredulous, with a side of snide. “Are you really going to ask that question? Don’t you know better?” 

“The world is not going to end because I went out for a beer. One night out is not going to bring the universe crashing down on our heads. Besides,” Dean adds, bringing out his closing argument, “we’re running short on cash.” 

Sam scoffs. “Pick one of our eight hundred credit cards.” 

“Credit cards are out. Remember how close Henrickson got? How do you think he found us?”

Sam throws his hands into the air. He’s already wearing one of his medium bitchfaces, with the potential to slip into Defcon Bitchface. “Gee, could it be the trail of dead bodies we usually tend to leave behind? It’s not outside the realm of possibility that someone managed to put two and two together and come up with four.” 

“Dead bodies pop up everywhere. If they didn’t, you and I wouldn’t have jobs. They’re tracking us by our aliases, Sherlock, which means they’ve cottoned onto the cards. So I’m going to go out there, hustle a few games of pool and make sure we have enough money to keep us gassed up and on the road. You know, so we can keep doing our shitty jobs.” 

With that, he’s out the door, not giving Sam a chance to argue. The keys to the Impala are in his hands; their jangling rings of freedom. Even the musty air of the car, stale with congealing grease from one too many fast food meals eaten inside and the body odor of two adult men shoved in a small space for hours at a time, smells sweet. Anything is better than the fucking motel room, which comes equipped with Sam’s stupid little  _ hrms _ every three seconds, the unending crinkle of pages, and the ever present drone of shitty cable TV. 

Given the caliber of the part of town he and Sam are staying in, it doesn’t take Dean long to find the exact kind of dive bar he’s looking for. It has a gravel parking lot, worn-down wooden sign just on the outskirts of the lot, with a blinking neon sign on the roof that proclaims  _ Dave’s.  _ The ‘e’ in  _ Dave’s  _ looks one second away from dying, but it struggles valiantly on. 

Dean parks at the edge of the lot. The spot’s in the shadows but close enough to the door to enable him to make a quick getaway if necessary. He glances around the parking lot as the pervasive itch of the past two weeks crawls down the back of his neck. He fights in the instinctive hunch of his shoulders, unwilling to give any hint to his pursuer. Whoever or whatever they are, they’re subtle. Whenever he looks over his shoulder, there’s no one there, but the prickle on the back of his neck never subsides, not even when he’s sleeping. It’s part of the reason that he and Sam have been on the move for two weeks. But no matter what they do, or where they go, the eyes never leave. 

It’s part of the reason why Dean was so intent on going out by himself. Whatever is following them is smart and cautious enough to keep on their trail for two weeks without detection. It’s patient, which concerns Dean more than he would ever tell Sam. Give him a foolhardy, reckless tail any day of the week. Patient hunters worry him. 

Whatever’s following him and Sam, it’s never going to come while they’re together; it’s smarter than that. No, this thing is going to wait until they’re separate and vulnerable. In that case, it’s best to dictate the terms himself, hence his solo venture. 

It’s time to finish this. 

He slides onto a stool at the bar and flashes his fingers at the bartender, a world-weary man who looks like he’s been through a wood chipper and somehow managed to live to tell the tale. “Whiskey, neat,” he orders. When the drink appears in front of him, he takes a slow sip before he turns around to scan the bar. 

For a Wednesday night, the bar’s turning out a brisk business. Several groups of people crowd around the dart board and pool table. Dean’s interest sparks, but he keeps his seat for the meantime. Booths line the walls. Darkness shrouds the occupants but Dean can catch a quick glimpse of white from a smile, a flash of blonde hair, the hint of a tinkling laugh. No one immediately jumps out at him as suspicious. 

A tiny pixie of a woman sitting at the corner of the bar manages to catch Dean’s interest. He lifts his glass towards her in a half-hearted salute. She catches the motion and dips her chin in a parody of coyness. Her semblance of modesty is ruined by the sly look she shoots at Dean from under her eyelashes as one corner of her mouth lifts in a smile. 

Dean is just about to slide off of his stool and make his way over to her, when the crowd around the pool table shifts, and he gets a look at  _ him.  _

Ever since he hit puberty, Dean had to come to terms with the idea that the boys caught his eye just as much as the girls did. Accepting his varied interests got a lot easier after John Winchester died, but he still has the instinctive reactions that his father hammered into him-- _ a real man wouldn’t feel that way, no son of mine is going to be a fucking queer _ . Even now, when he’s pushing on the wrong side of thirty and his father’s been dust in the wind for two years, he still gets that guilty squirm in his stomach whenever he catches sight of a nice ass that isn’t attached to a pair of tits. 

But this guy… He’s hot enough that it doesn’t matter. 

In the dark light of the bar, Dean can’t make out his exact features, but he gets an outline. He can see vivid cheekbones and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. A shock of dark, messy hair draws his eye down to broad shoulders and a slender waist, and thighs that Dean wants wrapped around his ears like yesterday. This man doesn’t walk so much as prowl when he moves around the pool table, and when he leans over to make a shot… The girl at the corner of the bar is forgotten as Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

He really hopes he’s not being followed. Someone could whack him on the back of the head with a 2x4, and he probably wouldn’t notice. All of his focus shifts to the drama playing out around the pool table. 

He can’t see the balls in play but based on the posture of the mystery man versus the other men around the table, he knows who’s winning. Mystery man circles around the table, tilting his head before he lines up a shot. He makes several false passes before striking. Even from his seat, Dean hears the clatter of balls and the groans of the other players. 

He doesn’t know this man, probably couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, but Dean still feels a little curl of pride in his chest as he straightens. He holds out his hand, nodding as several bills exchange hands. Dean’s admiration grows: one shark recognizes another. 

He raises his finger in a salutation to the bartender. This time he asks for a beer. If he’s going to start playing this game, liquor is out of the question. He gets his drink and sets off towards the pool table. As he walks past her, the woman at the corner of the bar pushes herself forward. She goes so far as to wrap her fingers around his arm, halting his progress. “Hey,” she says, a little too quickly like she knows that she only has a limited amount of time for her sales pitch. “I seem to have lost my wallet. Do you want to help me out and buy me a drink?”

It’s a damn transparent come-on, so awful that Dean almost considers it out of pity. The girl bats her eyelashes at him and smiles around the rim of her drink as the tip of her tongue flirts with the edge. Maybe thirty minutes ago that would have gotten Dean’s engine revving, but now he’s running a different race. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” and he actually means it, “but I’ve got to go play a game.” 

The woman pouts. The expression is lost on Dean, who’s already headed to the opposite end of the bar. The game’s just breaking up and the losers departing. One or two of them give Dean a look like maybe they want to warn him, but they obviously decide against it. Any sympathy Dean might have had for them disappears. 

The man faces away from him as he rifles through his winnings. Dean allows himself a moment to appreciate his aesthetics. He noticed the broad shoulders before, but now he can appreciate how the sleeves of the man’s t-shirt cling to his biceps. He can savor the nip of his waist which leads to a truly exquisite ass. His appreciation is cut short as the man turns around. Dean quickly plasters on a shit-eating grin and forces a sway into his posture. It’s showtime. 

“Hey,” he slurs, slapping a hand down on the green felt surface of the table. “You wanna game? Tried with all of them, but,” Dean forces a belch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “they’re all pussies.” 

The man doesn’t deign to look at him, and a hint of genuine irritation flashes through Dean. “Hey,” he says, his slur wobbling as he puts a little snap into his voice. “I’m talking to you.” 

The man finally turns, eyes snapping towards his face. Outside of Photoshop, Dean hadn’t known eyes could get that blue. The other features are all pleasing: sharp nose, full lips, shadow of stubble clinging to his jaw and cheeks, but...those eyes. 

“I’m aware,” the man says. At the sound of his voice, the floor drops out from under Dean. He’s always been a sucker for a deep voice and this bastard has one of the best. His voice is whiskey wrapped over steel, then shoved in a blender and poured over crushed glass. “But I find that I’m done for the night.”

The thought that the man might leave shatters any kind of common sense or self preservation in Dean. Instead of doing all the preliminary checks--slip him the silver dollar, splash of holy water in his drink--Dean’s counting down the time to when he can take this man in the bathroom and drop to his knees. Dean would scrub the floor if it allowed him to break this man’s impassive expression, but he has to play this cool. If he comes on too desperate, he might as bend over with a sign around his neck which screams  _ Come on and fuck me world _ . 

“You’re all the same,” he mumbles, waving his hand in dismissal as he takes a long sip of his drink. In a calculated move, he tosses his head back so that his throat has to work extra hard at swallowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man track the movement and catches how his fingers tighten on the cue. Jackpot. 

“Whatever man. Buncha fucking pussies,” Dean says, by way of parting. It’s a bluff, and he’s terrified that this man is going to call it. 

He needn’t have fretted. Before he has a chance to take three steps, that sandpaper voice is calling him. 

“You want to play a game?” 

Dean hides his smile against his shoulder as he turns around. He makes sure to almost stumble as he walks back up to the table. “Just a game,” he confirms, taking a cue off the table. He fishes in his wallet before throwing a $20 on the bumper. “Make it interesting,” he says, before he takes another sip of his drink. 

He’s not prepared for the man to step into his personal space, so close that if he leans forward just a few inches, their chests will touch. Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch. Adrenaline rockets through his body. A good fight, a good fuck, it’s all the same to him in the end. He hopes it’ll be the latter. Judging from how the man’s pupils expand to how the tip of his tongue touches the curve of his lower lip, Dean thinks he might get his wish. 

The man glances down at Dean’s money before he looks back up. A coy smile plays around the corners of his lips. “How about we make it a little more interesting and play for a drink instead?” 

Dean can’t help but lick at his lips. Every instinct screams at him to pull away, but he ignores them all to stare down, just an inch or so, into blue eyes. He fishes through his arsenal of smiles and brings out the cockiest one he possesses, the one guaranteed to drop panties all through the continental forty-eight. 

“You’ve got yourself a game,” he says, pitching his voice low. Now’s the time where he gives his alias of the week, something simple enough for him to remember, like Robert or Michael, but instead he introduces himself as “Dean.” 

Blue Eyes tracks the movement of his lips before looking back up to Dean’s eyes. He blinks, considering, before he says, “Cas.” 

A heavy moment hangs between them. This close, where he can almost feel Cas’ body against his and see how Cas’ eyes darken as he runs his teeth over his lower lip, Dean’s almost ready to see if those plush lips are as chapped as they look. Then Cas blinks and a hint of a devilish smirk plays around his lips. 

“By the way,” he says, pitching his voice low enough to tug at Dean’s dick, “you’ll find that I drink bourbon.” 

And with that...The game is  _ on.  _

\--- 

Oftentimes, losing is more difficult than winning. It takes skill to fake mediocrity. It took Dean a while to learn how to make missed shots look convincing, how to turn himself into just enough of a challenge to keep his marks coming back for more until he could clean them out. He had to practice at failing. 

He doesn’t have that problem playing against Cas. 

Right now, they’re evenly matched, and Dean’s not even thinking about losing. He can’t forget the cocky grin or the barely there promise as Cas brushed past him. He’s stripes, Dean’s solid, and maybe if Dean could take his eyes off of Cas, then he’d be able to win this damn game. 

He’s not entirely upset with this turn of events. It’s been a damn long time since someone other than Sam’s given him a real challenge. He’d like to win just to see the look on Cas’ face when he tells him that he thinks whiskey, preferably a whiskey that’s been aged 10+ years. He’d like to share a drink with Cas and hear more of his voice. He’d like to find out exactly how well Cas can use his mouth. He’d like for the backseat of the Impala to see something other than Sam’s ass at the end of the night. 

But none of that is going to happen if he doesn’t win this stupid game. 

Dean stands to the side and watches as Cas prowls around the table. He reminds Dean of some kind of predator, all coiled feline grace, as he tilts his head and examines the best angles. Dean licks his lips while Cas’ back is turned. “Be careful,” he cautions, twisting his hand around his cue. “Don’t want to mess up your shot.” 

Cas looks at him through narrowed eyes. Dean does his best to hide his excited little wiggle. Those eyes are a thunderstorm all on their own, but when they’re paired with that pout, they become devastating. It’s getting more and more difficult to hide his interest, and Cas has picked up on it. Not only that, he’s exploiting it. He has to be; no one plays pool with their legs spread the perfect width for Dean to slide between. At this point, if Cas hitched a knee on top of the table, Dean wouldn’t be surprised. 

“I don’t miss shots,” Cas finally says. He chalks up the end of the cue with slow, deliberate motions, never taking his eyes off of Dean. Dean’s mouth goes dry as an insistent heat begins to gather in his belly. This has got to be some of the longest foreplay he’s ever endured. 

“Never?” Dean sidles up next to Cas, bumping his hip into the other man’s. This close, everything falls away--Sam in the hotel room, the fact that up until an hour ago he was convinced that someone was following them, even the rest of the bar’s patrons. All that matters is the flex of Cas’ muscles underneath his shirt and the soft glimmer of sweat at the base of his neck. 

“Never,” Cas says flatly, turning back to the table. If he wants to pretend to ignore Dean, that’s fine. Dean’s not above playing a little dirty. 

He waits until Cas cuts all the posturing and settles down to business. Dean knows when Cas has lined up what he deems as a perfect shot. After an hour of playing, he can recognize the signs: a little shake of his head, a crick of his neck to the right, a minute shimmy of his shoulders. Cas’ fingers stop caressing the stick and hold it like a weapon. Cas bends over the bumper of the table. That’s when Dean stands beside him, close enough that he’s pressing Cas’ thigh into the table with his hip. 

“You never miss a shot?” he asks, bending over low enough to whisper in Cas’ ear, hot and dirty, lips barely brushing the shell. His tongue flicks out against the shell of Cas’ ear, just for a second, enough to give the impression of a tease as he rolls his hips against the curve of Cas’ ass. 

Cas jolts forward with a curse, elbow hitting the table as he completely misses his shot. The stick actually makes a gouge in the felt of the table as the cue ball rolls a few harmless inches forward. Dean keeps his eyes on Cas’ ass, on the sliver of tan skin revealed by Cas’ slip. He’s ready to put his hand directly on that skin and say  _ I don’t know about you, but I’m done playing games,  _ but the gleam of metal stops him dead in his tracks. 

Because tucked into the waistband of Cas’ pants, just barely peeking out from above his jeans...That is a gun. 

-_-_-_-_-

  
  


The night has not gone according to plan. 

Castiel had followed Dean Winchester from the hotel, keeping a respectable distance as he walked the short distance to the bar. He’d slid in behind Dean and gotten himself a drink, all without a single hint that Dean knew he was there. The corner pool table offered the best vantage point of the bar and from there he’d watched Dean drink his way through several tumblers, as well as kept an eye on the entrances and exits. When several idiots who thought that  _ Pretty Boy  _ was a cutting insult approached, well, who was he to try and stop them from challenging him to a game? 

He’d gotten so caught up in the thrill of competition that he’d lost his view of Dean. He’d panicked, at least until he saw Dean stalking towards him, all predatory intent and determined focus atop a mouth-watering pair of bowlegs. Castiel’s first instinct was to reach for his gun, but when Dean drew closer, he recognized the appreciative flick of Dean’s eyes. 

It had been a while since Castiel had been the focus of a look like that, and it had been a longer while since he felt like doing anything about it. He’d be lying if he said that a low flame of heat hadn’t sparked in his gut and traveled straight down to his dick. Dean’s mugshot hadn’t done him justice. It didn’t take into account the soft smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the apple of his cheeks. It didn’t show the breadth of his shoulders, or how his shirt hugged the curve of his biceps and hints at softness in his belly. It didn’t show the plumpness of his lower lip or the sparkle of his green eyes in the dim lighting. 

At that point Castiel made a fatal mistake. He made the mistake of believing that he could be a regular person. He fell into the fantasy of believing he could go to a bar and pick up a hot guy, take him back to his room and fuck him senseless. Castiel flirted and hinted, and bent over when he knew Dean was watching, and let himself think about yanking Dean into the alleyway and dropping to his knees. 

When Dean dismisses himself to go to the bathroom, Castiel knows he’s fucked up somewhere. Dean had done a good job of playing coy as he excused himself, but rather than the barely banked lust of earlier, something cold and calculating stared out at him. Something had shifted between them in those few short minutes. Whatever it was, it was enough to have Dean glaring murder at him. 

He can’t lose Dean now. For two weeks he’s been following the Winchesters, and this is the first night they’ve split up. If Dean’s suspicions are raised, then Castiel doubts they’ll separate for months. He can’t take on both the Winchesters by himself, and he can’t (won’t) work with someone else. Whatever move he’s going to make, it has to be made tonight, which leaves him with one crucial question. Does he go after Dean now, or wait for him to come back? 

A bead of sweat trails down his forehead. Castiel sighs and tugs at the hem of his shirt to wipe it away. His gun shifts against the small of his back, and Castiel freezes. 

When he fell forward, his shirt would have moved. If Dean had been paying attention, then he would have seen…

“Fuck,” Castiel swears, wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he starts towards the bathroom. Forget waiting for Dean to come back out. He’ll be lucky if Dean hasn’t already gone out through the bathroom window. 

He pushes past several people on his single-minded trip to the bathroom, including a petite brunette who looks entirely too interested. He apologizes as his shoulder hits her, but doesn’t stop to hear what she has to say in return. He only has eyes for the peeling sign denoting the men’s restroom. 

Before he enters, Castiel takes a moment to calm himself. He needs to focus on what matters. His goal is ultimately a simple one: he needs to transport Dean Winchester out of this bar and into his truck. The job has always been simple, but Castiel knows that just because something starts simple, doesn’t mean that it will end that way. 

In the past two weeks, he’s gotten multiple calls from Michael, all of them dealing with the Winchester case. It’s been years since Michael took that much of an interest in him. If Castiel’s being honest, then he would say that Michael’s never taken that much of an interest in him.  _ Sam and Dean Winchester are connected to a series of murders in Oak Hills, Iowa, where are you? Have you made any progress on Sam and Dean Winchester? Castiel, it’s been over a week and I haven’t heard anything from you; please check in with me soon. Castiel, I know that you don’t like being handled, but if I don’t see results soon, then I’m going to have to send you some help.  _

Thinking of his brother isn’t helping. With a supreme effort of will, Castiel pushes Michael’s voice and Dean’s grin to the back of his mind. Michael and Dean are just distractions. The job is all that matters. 

Clinging to his thin veneer of calm, Castiel pushes the bathroom door open with his left hand. Meanwhile, his right hand finds the grip of his gun. 

When the door closes behind him, Castiel is plunged into darkness. He gropes at the wall with his free hand in a vain attempt to find the light switch. Eventually, he admits defeat and steps further into the bathroom. Adrenaline sings through his veins, but Castiel forces his breathing to remain deep and calm. He opens his eyes wide as he tries to catch any hint of light. He can just barely discern the outlines of the urinals and sinks. 

He’s just about to bring his phone out and use it for illumination, when he’s stopped by the soft click of a safety being thumbed off. Cold metal presses into the back of his neck and Castiel freezes. He lifts his hands up. Almost immediately, a sure hand plucks his gun out of his grasp. 

A fluorescent light, blinding in its brightness, snaps to life. Castiel flinches from the assault on his vulnerable eyes. As soon as he’s able, he squints as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He’s facing the mirrors, and it takes a few moments before he can make sense of his reflection. Behind him, his gun pressed to the base of Castiel’s skull, Dean shakes his head in a mockery of a scolding. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas. And here we were having such a nice night.” 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. fighters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longer this conversation continues, the more wrong-footed Castiel feels. Most of his collars are quick, easy affairs: they fight, he wins, and they go on from there. He was expecting the same from Winchester, albeit with a little more fighting. This… He has no idea how to deal with this, but if there’s one thing which he’s learned, it’s that an unpredictable fugitive is a dangerous fugitive. He needs to deal with Dean Winchester now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**part 2**

Ever since the horrors of withdrawal, Castiel has never been afraid of dying. 

He almost hoped it would happen, in those first nights spent writhing on damp, filthy sheets. Ice and razors crawled through his veins as fever blazed through his body, setting him alight. Castiel had reached for water only to find his hand empty. He screamed at Michael, at his parents, at thousands of faces from his past. Then, after he screamed his throat raw, he opened his eyes and found the room empty. In those moments, he’d thought he would die. He’d hoped he would. In those despair soaked moments, dying seemed so much more preferable than life. 

So he’s not afraid when Dean Winchester presses the barrel of his gun into the nape of his neck. It’s certainly not the first time Castiel’s been held at gunpoint. Considering the way he lives his life, it’s probably not going to be the last. The gun digging into his skin is a little painful, but he’s certainly not in a position to complain. 

“Dean,” he says, calmly. His hands are raised beside his head, carefully non-threatening. “Put the gun down and we can talk.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean’s sneer is wide enough to take up the whole mirror as he meets Castiel’s eyes. He never looks away and the gun never moves, even as Dean reaches into his waistband. Castiel flinches when he catches sight of the small, silver knife in Dean’s hand. He’s still debating whether he should try to defend himself when, faster than he expects, Dean’s hand snaps out. 

The knife is honed to such a sharp edge that, for a moment, Castiel doesn’t know he’s been cut. He only realizes it when a thin red slice opens on the back of his hand. The pain follows a moment later. Castiel hisses and jerks his hand away, glaring at Dean in the mirror. Dean’s forehead wrinkles in confusion as he looks between Castiel’s hand and his eyes in the mirror. A trickle of blood runs down Castiel’s wrist and he remembers the warnings about Dean Winchester. 

_ Homicidal ideations, psychotic delusions of a supernatural nature, approach with extreme caution as delusions often take a paranoid nature.  _

“Dean, you don’t have to hurt me.” Castiel tries to keep his voice calm; he has no desire to be cut again. “If we talk, then I can tell you what I’m doing here.” 

“Fat fucking chance.” The knife disappears, and Dean rummages around again. This time he comes up with a silver flask. At a time like this, he wants a drink? Only the gun pressed to the back of his head, and the knowledge that Dean won’t hesitate to put a bullet through his skull, keep Castiel stationary. 

Dean unscrews the lid to his flask with a deft hand. Castiel half expects it, but he’s still not ready for the cold liquid to be dumped atop his head. Droplets wind their way down the back of his neck and he grunts in displeasure. 

“What the fuck?” Dean doesn’t bother trying to hide his confusion as he looks at Castiel. “What the hell are you? Human?” 

Is Dean Winchester actually insane? Castiel had assumed the accusation of insanity was a fabrication on the part of law enforcement to explain their mistakes and incompetence, but perhaps he was wrong. “If you’re trying to build an insanity defense, I would advise against it. The federal attorney is notoriously prejudiced against that claim. It might actually hurt your chances at trial.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

The longer this conversation continues, the more wrong-footed Castiel feels. Most of his collars are quick, easy affairs: they fight, he wins, and they go on from there. He was expecting the same from Winchester, albeit with a little more fighting. This… He has no idea how to deal with this, but if there’s one thing which he’s learned, it’s that an unpredictable fugitive is a dangerous fugitive. He needs to deal with Dean Winchester now.

There’s no tension in his muscles before he moves, nothing to give the slightest hint of his plans. Castiel knows how to turn his body into a weapon and how to take advantage of even the smallest opening. 

The gun falls away from his neck as he drops into a crouch. He strikes out at Dean’s knees, remembering the slightest hesitation in Dean’s step from earlier. Dean stumbles back, grunting in surprise as his right knee buckles. Castiel springs forward, pushing his palm into Dean’s solar plexus as he rises. 

To his credit, Dean recovers quickly. The hand holding his gun swings around, but it’s a sloppy movement and one which Castiel anticipates. He slams the side of his hand into Dean’s bicep before ruthlessly digging his thumb into the pressure point just below his elbow. Dean’s yelp of pain dies behind his teeth, but he still drops the gun. It clatters to the ground and Castiel kicks it away. 

Dean snarls at him, like a feral animal, before launching himself at Castiel. A flurry of punches snaps out towards his face and torso. Castiel ducks and hunches into himself as best he can, but Dean is vicious and his fists are powerful. Pain blooms along his side as Dean slams into him in a full-bodied tackle. Together, they crash into the wall. Castiel’s head strikes the wall and black flashes across his vision. It’s only for a second, but it’s a second too long. 

Dean lunges for the gun at the opposite end of the bathroom. Desperate, Castiel seizes Dean’s ankle and yanks, dropping Dean to the ground. At the moment, the only advantage he has is the fact that neither of them have control over a firearm. The second Dean gets his hands back on his gun, the balance in the room shifts. Castiel’s only hope of winning is to keep Dean unarmed. 

“Fuck you, fuck you,” pours out of Dean’s mouth as they grapple along the filthy tile floor. Castiel does his best to fend off blows, but Dean manages to land a stinging slap to the side of his already aching head. A persistent ringing takes up in his ears and Castiel shakes his head to clear his swimming vision. Dean’s face is the first thing he sees then, spitting hate at him. “Get the fuck off of me, you fucker.” 

If he weren’t in the middle of a fight, Castiel would comment on Dean’s eloquence. As it is, he doesn’t have the breath to spare for witty banter. The thought occurs to him, concurrent with Dean’s knee slamming into his ribs, that he might lose this fight. 

It’s time to end this. Castiel uncurls from his defensive posture as Dean rears back for another punch. Dean’s overly confident and he’s left himself open. From this angle, it’s laughably easy for Castiel to slam an elbow into Dean’s solar plexus. The blow leaves Dean wheezing, which gives Castiel enough time to clamber to his knees. He reaches for his ankle holster and comes up with his gun. 

It’s clumsy, how he sprawls across Dean’s back and forces him down on his belly, but no one’s judging him on finesse. His knee jams into the small of Dean’s back while his left hand snatches at Dean’s wrist. He pins one arm behind Dean, leaning hard on the vulnerable bones as he pushes his gun against the back of Dean’s head. 

At the first hint of pressure, Dean lies motionless underneath him, reaffirming Castiel’s suspicion that this is not the first time Dean Winchester’s had a gun pulled on him. “You want to stay very still.” Castiel growls out the suggestion, hoping that if he keeps his voice brusque, he can hide the hitch of pain in his breathing. 

“Fuck you,” Dean snarls, turning his head so that he can glare at Castiel with one baleful eye. “Who are you? State police? Feds?” 

Castiel smiles in grim satisfaction. Clearly, Dean’s decided to drop the delusions and act rationally. Dean clearly takes offense to his expression, judging from how he snarls and bucks underneath Castiel. Taken by surprise, Castiel almost loses his grip, but he holds on tightly. Recovering his position, he increases the pressure on Dean’s wrist, wrenching it viciously up his back. “I’ll break it,” he warns, without heat. 

Dean rolls his eyes, but subsides. “Ok, so you’re not a Fed. Feds are too worried about getting their hands dirty.” Amazingly, he cranes his head over his shoulder to shoot Castiel a filthy grin. “You’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty, are you, Cas? Fuck, if that’s even your name.” 

“It’s close enough.” Castiel digs his knee hard into Dean’s back to distract from the moment where he lets go of Dean’s arm to grab for his cuffs. The distraction only works for a moment before Dean realizes his freedom. Castiel grinds the hard metal of the gun into the fragile curve of Dean’s skull. “I said, stay still.” 

Dean’s grin turns cruel. “You wouldn’t do it,” he taunts. “Whoever you’re working for, you wanted me badly enough to take me alive.” 

Castiel’s cuffs are a solid, reassuring weight in his hands. A deft flick of his thumb opens one side and he snaps them onto Dean’s wrist before the other man can even think to resist. If he over-tightens them, then well. Everyone makes mistakes. Dean hisses and tries to kick at Castiel, but the balance of power has firmly shifted in Castiel’s favor. It’s child’s play for him to grab Dean’s other wrist and snap the cuffs around it. 

After the cuffs are on, Castiel sits back. He pointedly ignores his groin pressing against the firm swell of Dean’s ass. Instead, he uses the brief respite to try and catch his breath. “Dean Winchester,” he begins, falling into the comfortable routines of the job, “I’m a bail enforcement officer. Under the authority of the state government of Illinois, I am taking you into custody.” 

Underneath him, Dean quakes. It takes a moment before Castiel realizes he’s laughing. 

“You must be shitting me,” he finally wheezes. “A fucking bounty hunter?” 

“Bail enforcement agent,” Castiel grunts. He tongues at the split in his lip and breathes around the pain in his ribs. “Now come on.” 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


All right, so Dean got a little hard when Cas was wrestling him. Sue him. 

He defies anyone  _ not  _ to get hard when they have that body squirming against theirs, or when they have those thighs clamped around their hips. Cas, sitting on top of his ass while slapping handcuffs on him? That whole scenario ticked off at least four boxes in Kinky Bingo. 

It’s too bad he’s a fucking cop, but no one’s perfect. 

Cas is fun to rile. His is the kind of stoic that cracks under pressure, like lava flowing underneath a thin surface of basalt. Dean longs to dig his fingernails under the thin crust of civilization, which Cas wears like an ill-fitting mask, and  _ pull.  _ It doesn’t matter to him if he gets burnt, and Cas  _ would _ burn him, in all the best ways. Dean can tell by the way that Cas pulls him up by his elbow, just short of dislocating his arm. Pain burns through his body. It’s enough to draw a little gasp out of him and definitely enough to make his dick take notice. It’s going to be awkward leaving here with half a chub pushing at the zipper of his jeans, but it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to him. 

“Handcuffs, huh Cas?” Dean asks as Cas marches him out of the bathroom. He flexes his wrist, wincing as his skin rubs against the unforgiving steel of the cuffs. Cas put them on too tight, the bastard, which means he has no margin of movement. He wasn’t expecting much, but it’s still disappointing to discover. 

It’s not an ideal situation. Everything useful to him, like his phone and lockpicks, are either in the Impala or back in the hotel room with Sam. If the pincher-tight grip Cas has on his bicep is any indication, Dean’s not going to have a chance of getting his hands on any acceptable substitutions for a while at least. By then, he fears it’ll be much too late. 

“Little kinky, aren’t you? It’s ok, I don’t mind.” Dean leers over his shoulder, just to see the thundercloud expression spread over Cas’ face. 

As they enter into the main area of the bar, all eyes turn towards them. Cas, evidently prepared for this, flashes an official looking badge at the crowd. “I’m an authorized bail enforcement agent,” he announces, while moving Dean efficiently through the crowd. “This man has a warrant out for his arrest in four states.” 

Technically it’s six states; two of those warrants are for his aliases. Nevertheless, Dean is impressed. Baby Blues does his homework. There’s a lot to appreciate about Cas--his ass, how his eyes darken when he’s pissed, the fact that he fights like ten kinds of hellcats--It almost makes Dean regret what he’s about to do. 

“Sorry Cas,” Dean mutters, loud enough to be overheard. Cas’ head snaps towards him, just in time for Dean to slam the back of his head into Cas’ nose. 

The collision makes his world tilt, but he can’t stop. If his showing in the bathroom is any indication, Cas is going to recover inhumanly quickly, and Dean needs every second he can get. 

With his hands cuffed behind his back, it’s difficult to bring his knee up into Cas’ already hurt side, but not impossible. Cas huffs in pain and blinks furiously to clear the involuntary tears from his vision. He strikes out, but Dean easily evades his blow. He darts inside Cas’ reach, shoving his shoulder into him, which sends him toppling to the ground. 

Alarmed shouts and curses fill the air. If he had the time, Dean would grin.  _ That’s it,  _ he urges, as he buries his foot in Cas’ gut with a vicious kick.  _ Come on, get worried, get mad, do something about it... _ “Come on Cas,” he sneers. He digs the toe of his boot into Cas’ shoulder before he flicks the other man onto his back. “Can’t get it up anymore?”

Cas strikes with the speed and accuracy of viper. His eyes are cold and merciless as he kicks at Dean’s knee, the tricky one that never healed quite right after an accident three years ago, with a hammer blow. Dean drops like a load of bricks, though he does manage to slam his knee into Cas’ torso on the way down. Unfortunately, this leaves him open to a series of quick punches. 

“You two get out of here!” The bartender shakes the phone threateningly at them from behind the bar. “I’ve already called the cops.” 

Dean grins around his split lip and tastes blood between his teeth. Perfect. A phone call to the police was exactly what he was hoping would happen. Sam, bless his nerdy little heart, will no doubt have a police scanner going, because that’s just the kind of AV dork he is. When he hears there was a disturbance at the bar...Well, his brother isn’t stupid. He can put two and two together and come up with four the majority of the time. 

“That’s not necessary,” Cas says, hauling both himself and Dean upright. “We’ll be going.” 

He puts action to words, ushering Dean out of the bar and into the chilly night air. He leads Dean to a dilapidated looking truck and shoves him in the backseat. Before Dean can even think about fighting back or escaping, Cas puts himself in the front seat and starts the truck. It takes a few seconds for the truck to sputter to life with a disgruntled cough, but eventually the engine turns over. 

Cas spares him a glare in the rearview mirror. “Don’t even think about trying to kick the seat unless you want to kill us both.” 

“Oh Cas, you don’t know how to have fun,” Dean sneers. He’d hoped Cas might linger a little, maybe take some of his obvious frustration out on him in the parking lot, but it looks like Cas is a consummate professional. More’s the pity. Dean would have liked to see what Cas looked like without the stick up his ass. 

“Bail enforcement agent, huh?” He says instead as Cas pulls out of the lot. “What’s that like?”

At first he thinks that Cas isn’t going to answer, but maybe the other man is as starved for conversation as Dean. “I get to hang out in a lot of shitty bars and deal with a lot of assholes.” 

Dean clicks his tongue in mock hurt. “I hope you’re not including me in that group. I thought we had something special back there.” 

Cas doesn’t answer. Frustrated and bored, Dean needles him. At the very least, it’ll provide him with entertainment. Better yet, Cas might let something slip if he forgets himself. “Come on. You’re telling me there was nothing? Not even the slightest spark? You seemed to like slapping those handcuffs on me.”

Buried deep inside him, so far down that he doesn’t even want to poke at the edges, he’s almost worried Cas will say he was imagining it. A little further up, he knows that Cas would be lying if denied it. Dean might not be as smart as little genius Sam, but he knows enough to know when someone wants him. During that pool game, before everything spun so wildly out of control, Cas  _ wanted _ him. 

“Shut up,” is all Cas says as he wrenches the steering wheel. Unable to balance or brace himself, Dean slams into the window of the truck. He curses at Cas, who proceeds to ignore him. The tires of the truck kick up gravel and dust as they go squealing onto the road. 

“You’re a shitty driver,” Dean comments, shaking his head to clear away the lingering bursts of pain. 

Cas doesn’t deign to respond. 

\---

In hopes of figuring out his destination, Dean tries to chart Cas’ course, but the bastard drives like he’s trying to die historic on the Fury Road, which makes small things like staying upright suddenly difficult. Street signs whip past him before he can even hope to read them. After the third missed sign, Dean gives up. Besides, he’s never had Sam’s skill at this memory work. Right, left, U-turn, straight--It all blends together in Dean’s head in a wash of neon and headlights. 

“The fuck are we going? It doesn’t take this long to get to the police station.” 

Cas doesn’t answer. Instead he jerks the steering wheel again, turning the truck so tightly that it threatens to tip over on two wheels. Once again, Dean’s body slams into the side of the door. “Knock that shit out,” he snarls. Despite Cas’ warning, he contemplates kicking the back of his seat. It would certainly feel satisfying to slam Cas’ face into the steering wheel. It might even be worth the inevitable bruises, concussion, and broken bones he would receive as a result of the crash. 

Nope. Not worth it. At the rate they’re going, Sam is going to have a difficult time finding him. Worse is the possibility that Sam might  _ not  _ find him, and if that’s the case, Dean has to be in top fighting condition. 

He settles for a seething glare in the rearview. Cas returns the look, his blue eyes chips of ice. 

Jesus, Dean wonders what it would feel like to twist his fingers in that hair and make him  _ scream.  _

Cas pulls over into the parking lot of a no-tell motel, the kind that charges by the hour and prays that a black light never crosses its threshold. It’s the kind of motel Dean favors, simply because the clerks don’t get paid enough to ask questions of bloody men seeking rooms at one A.M. 

Cas picks a room, seemingly at random, and parks in front of it. He works in swift, practiced motions as he gets both himself and Dean out of the truck. Before he can muster a proper plan of action, he’s in front of the motel door. Cas’ grip is like steel as he slams Dean into the rough brick wall. His muscles and bones protest the treatment, but Dean bites back the small huff of pain dying to escape through his teeth. 

“You know, if you keep treating me like this, you’re going to give me ideas,” he sneers, baring his teeth. 

Cas continues his tradition of being No Fun Ever and ignores his aggressive attempts at flirtation. “If you run, I’ll catch you, and I promise I’ll make it so you can’t run again,” is all he says. Dean barely has time to parse the meaning of those words before Cas drops to one knee. 

Dean’s first thought is  _ Hell yeah, this night is looking up _ . Then he realizes the focus of that squinty-eyed look of concentration isn’t him but rather the doorknob. Two slender metal rods flash between Cas’ fingers, and Dean hums in satisfaction. “So you’re not quite a law-abiding citizen.” 

Now would be his best chance to run, while the majority of Cas’ attention is directed elsewhere, but he stays put. If anyone asked, Dean would defend his actions by saying that he wouldn’t get very far. Even without his hands cuffed behind his back, he’s not winning any medals in a sprint and Cas looks like the kind of bastard who runs every morning before breakfast. He would also say that he believes Cas’ threat of breaking bones, which is an outcome he would like to avoid. Both of those are perfectly legitimate reasons, but they’re not the real reason as to why he stays. 

He can’t drag himself away from the sight of Cas hard at work. He’s all narrow focus and intense effort, forehead creased as he fiddles with the lock. 

At this point in his life, Dean considers himself somewhat of an expert in the field of lock-picking. He can recognize another aficionado. Cas is good, damn good. Only a few seconds longer than it would have taken him, Dean hears the soft sound of the lock releasing. 

Cas clambers to his feet, satisfaction flashing over his expression for a brief second before he turns to Dean. “Aw, come on Cas. There’s a lot of fun we could get into with you on your knees,” Dean tries, before he’s shoved into the room. 

\---

Normally, if Dean is cuffed in a motel room, either something very good or very, very bad is about to happen. At the very least, he expects bodily fluids of some nature. 

Being with Cas is probably the most boring time he’s had while cuffed. 

After getting him into the room, Cas seems perfectly happy to secure him to a chair. After he checks the strength of his bonds (great) and the slack in the restraints (minimal), he then proceeds to ignore Dean. Dean had been under the impression, given Cas’ driving, that he was on some sort of timeline, but now Cas seems perfectly happy to lounge on the bed. Long minutes tick by and all Cas does is dick around on his phone. It defies Dean’s expectations, which ruins his planning, which makes him snappish. 

After thirty minutes, Dean breaks. “Can you at least turn on the TV?” 

“Shut up,” Cas says dispassionately. He doesn’t bother looking up from his phone. 

“You know, I wish you’d just get on with whatever kinky shit you’ve got planned. The anticipation is killing me.” Dean flexes his wrist. The cuff bites into the flesh. 

Predictably, Cas ignores him. Dean chafes at the silence and indifference. This isn’t going to any sort of logical progression; if Cas is telling the truth and he is a bounty hunter, then by now, he should have delivered Dean to either a police station or a law enforcement contact. If Dean had his choice, he would prefer a police station. Then Sam could easily slide in with his shiniest Fed suit and a few fake extradition papers. With a little bit of that Sammy Winchester charm, wham, bam, and he’s out in time for last call. But this waiting… Something’s not right. 

“Look, I think your transport guy is running behind,” Dean says, after another ten minutes go by. “You should call him, make sure he got the address right.” Cas doesn’t give any indication that he heard him. “Hey. Cas.” At the sound of his name, Cas’ eyes flick towards him. Dean bristles at the cool amusement held within their icy blue depths. “Seriously. If you’re planning on doing the freaky stuff, get on with it, would you? I’ve got a hot date tonight.” 

Cas purses his lips in thought. “We’re waiting,” he finally says. The expression on his face suggests that Dean should be exceedingly grateful for this sparse explanation. 

“No fucking shit,” Dean bites, rolling his eyes. He’s about ready to make a break for it, just to break up the monotony. “Like I said, your guy is late.” 

“Actually, it’s your man who has yet to show.” 

The words take a moment to rearrange themselves into some kind of sense. But when they do, his blood turns to ice in his veins. 

“Sam’s running behind,” Cas says. He sets his phone down next to him with deliberate nonchalance. “Given your reputations, I would have thought he’d have tracked us down by now.” 

The anger which seeps into Dean is cold enough to burn. He knows about Sam. This bastard knows about Sam. Dean doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Any database which has his face usually has Sam’s Cro-Magnon forehead right beside him, but they’ve lucked out before. Dean tends to be the one left in the shitter more often than not--the shifter in St. Louis, the rag with the banks in Minneapolis--and Sam is better than him at getting out of the way of the inevitable shitstorm. But Cas knows about Sam, indeed seems disappointed that he’s been inconvenienced by Sam’s tardiness. 

“You stay away from my brother.” If the game is up and subterfuge is useless, then Dean will resort to straight intimidation. A spark of interest lights on Cas’ face, animating it beyond his previous apathy. “I’m serious. You carve into me, you throw me in the slammer, you do whatever you’ve got to do to get it up, but you stay the  _ fuck _ away from my brother.” His voice trembles. The last thing Dad said to him, right before the shit hit the fan was  _ Take care of Sammy,  _ and that’s what Dean intends to do. 

“Sam is wanted for the same crimes as you,” Cas says quietly. There’s a hint of pity in his voice, like Dean is just too stupid to figure out how the world works. If Cas knew half of what Dean knows about how the world works, he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning. 

“I don’t give a shit. I’m telling you right now, that if you lay a single finger on my brother, I will end you.” An indulgent smile flickers on Cas’ face, provoking Dean to snap, “Look at my face, fucker. You think I’m bluffing?”

Cas’ expression changes as he takes the time to actually look at Dean. He doesn’t start trembling in his boots, but he does lose the smug smirk. He looks thoughtful and calculating, like he’s maybe just started to figure out that he’s gripped a wolf by the tail with no safe way of releasing him. 

“No, I don’t.” Cas taps his lower lip with his index finger. 

“Then you’d best do yourself a favor and let me go right the hell now. Because I promise you that if you lay a hand on Sam, when I get out--and I will get out--you’re going to be the first thing in my cross-hairs.” 

Cas tilts his head, bird-like. Dean yanks at the cuffs and achieves nothing more than raw wrists. He clenches his fists in frustration, hard enough that his knuckles ache. First thing he’s going to do when he gets out of these cuffs is slam his fist into Cas’ face. Probably a few times, for emphasis. 

“If it makes it better,” Cas says slowly, “I have no intention of hurting Sam.” 

“Yeah, you’re just going to slap a pair of cuffs on him and toss him in prison,” Dean sneers. 

Cas gives the impression of a shrug. “He violated the law. So did you. There are consequences.” 

“Fuck your rules.” While Cas is the kind of hot that’s going in the spank bank for years to come, he’s also exactly the kind of sanctimonious asshole that Dean hates, harping on about rules, and what should and shouldn’t be done. All the while out in the real world, people are getting slaughtered. 

“Rules are in place for a reason. Without them, society would descend into chaos.” Cas speaks like a schoolboy reciting lessons. It’s almost impossible for Dean to believe that this is the same man who fought with such fire and fury. “You have to trust in the larger plan and have faith that the law is just.” 

Dean’s stomach turns. “Buddy, you have been drinking the Kool-Aid for way too long if you’re going to spout that kind of bullshit at me.” When Cas looks at him with a coolly considering gaze, Dean scoffs. “The law is  _ just? _ Trust in the larger plan? Well, I’m telling you, where I come from, the law is anything but just, and the larger plan is that we’re all fucked.” 

“Be that as it may,” Cas begins, but cuts himself off. The faint sound of footsteps sounds outside the door. 

Cas moves swiftly and fluidly, rolling off the bed and coming to a stop directly in front of Dean. He forces a length of rough cloth between Dean’s lips, cutting off his warning shout. Cas knots it with sure, swift movements. No  _ way  _ Cas isn’t into some kinky shit on his off time. 

“My apologies,” Cas murmurs, dragging Dean’s chair a few feet to the left. Positioned like this, he’s the first thing someone would see upon entering the room. “I would enjoy continuing our conversation, but duty calls.” He moves away from Dean and slaps at the lights, plunging the room into darkness, before he takes a position against the wall. In the stillness of the room, the only sounds Dean can pick out are the soft hum of the air conditioner, the almost inaudible whisper of Cas’ breath, and the scrape of a pick in the lock. 

Dean looks to Cas to gauge his reaction. Man, but Cas is  _ good.  _ Even though he knows exactly where Cas is hiding, it still takes him a few seconds to distinguish his body from the rest of the shadows. Dean glares at him, hoping that his message gets across from the vicious tilt of his eyebrows-- _ Touch a hair on Sam’s head and you’re a dead man-- _ but Cas isn’t paying any attention to him. 

The door creaks open. A thin slice of light from the parking lot falls jaggedly into the room. Sam, his big, beautiful, lumbering idiot of a brother, stands illuminated in the doorway. Ever the consummate professional, he glances around the room, gun held at shoulder height, before he allows himself to look at Dean. 

Dean garbles out a series of sounds he hopes sounds like  _ It’s a trap, the fucker’s at the window _ . He doesn’t know whether his message gets through or not, so he tries to speak with the raise of his brows, the glint of his eyes, the indication of his head. 

He and Sam have been hunting together too long for that not to make an impression. Recognition sparks in Sam’s eyes as he follows the direction of Dean’s steady gaze. Never giving an indication of awareness, Sam freezes before--

Cas strikes, all fluid grace and dangerous accuracy. Dean lets out a strangled shout of warning, but even that’s not enough to prepare Sam. A solid knee slams into Sam’s side, with force enough to send him buckling, and Dean is going to  _ kill  _ Cas, he’s going to rip his damn  _ lungs _ out--

Sam recovers quickly and swings his arm out in a wild arc. He doesn’t manage to hit Cas’ face, but he does slam an elbow into his chest, which is enough to send Cas staggering backwards. Dean yanks at the cuffs around his wrist, but with his hands empty, there’s nothing he can do to free himself. All he can do is sit there uselessly, watching his brother take another brutal blow from Cas. 

Sam’s power is matched by Cas’ speed, creating an even battleground. Neither of them manages to get a clean shot lined up, so they resort to their fists, elbows, and knees. Cas is pretty good--not many humans can give Sam a run for his money-- but as the fight continues, something becomes clear to Dean. 

Fighting a Winchester brother is a traumatic experience which takes a while to recover from. Cas is coming into this fight fresh off of his fight with Dean, and Dean can see the toll his injuries are taking on him: slower reaction times, a hitch when he swings from his left, a slight imbalance on his right knee. The more hits Cas takes, the more his movements slow. Sam slams a palm into Cas’ already hurt ribs, and the bounty hunter lurches backward, hand involuntarily going to his side. Dean sees Sam’s interest prick, like a dog catching the scent. Getting hit by a pissed off Sam Winchester is like getting hit by a train locomotive, and Cas is starting to show the wear of this fight as well. 

Dean’s ready to settle into watching a satisfying show called  _ Watching Sam Winchester kick Cas’ Ass All Over this Motel Room,  _ when his viewing pleasure is interrupted by a cold gust of wind sweeping through the motel room. It sends papers flying and knocks a lamp off of the bedside table. Dean gags at the scent it leaves it in its wake, sulfuric and acidic. In the parking lot, a light bursts, sending sparks cascading down to the asphalt. 

Oh no. Not this. Not here. Not now. 

Sam springs away from Cas, leaving them on opposite sides of the room. Hard lines of tension bracket his eyes and mouth. “I need the keys,” Sam snaps, sharp and urgent.

“Are you insane.” It’s phrased as a statement, meaning that Cas has no intention of handing the keys over. 

“Trust me, whoever you are, you are not prepared for what’s about to walk through that door.” Outside, another light sparks and explodes. The wind picks up until the door is slamming into the wall. Sam looks outside, his face stricken, before he turns to Cas. “I’m not fucking around with you, just give me the keys!” 

“Too late.” The sing-song voice makes Dean’s skin crawl. The scent of sulfur strengthens until it’s overpowering, bringing tears to his eyes. 

A girl walks into the room. With a lurch, Dean recognizes the girl sitting at the corner of the bar from earlier in the night. The playfulness is gone from her face. In its place is a cold, sneering superiority. Her eyes flash black as she looks at the three of them. 

If this were any other circumstance, then Dean would be smug at Cas’ sharp intake of breath, but there’s no room for pettiness here. Not when the power radiating off the girl starts oozing around the room, leaving invisible, oily smears in its wake. 

“What a wealth of riches,” she comments, her eyes flicking from Cas, to Sam, and then to Dean, who’s about as useful as trussed up turkey. 

“Now, where to start?”

  
  


*~*~*~*~*


	3. fugitives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s heart performs an odd series of loops as Cas steps into view. His hands are steady as he points his gun at the demon. “Back off.” His voice wobbles in the middle of the command, but the intent is clear. 
> 
> Too bad his bravado is all for nothing. 
> 
> When a demon laughs, the world shivers. Dean finds that he’s no exception as the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise in an instinctive rejection of the noise. Cas is worse. A shudder rolls through his body and he buckles in a way that usually indicates retching. With his gun lowered, he’s an easy target, and a flick of the demon’s fingers sends him sprawling.

*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Sam reacts first. 

In one smooth motion, he pushes Cas away and raises his gun. Cas jerks back, his own gun rising, but Sam ignores him as he fires three rounds into the demon’s chest. The bullets don’t hurt her, but they do slow her down long enough for Sam to pull Ruby’s knife out of its holster. In the dim light, the curved blade gleams wickedly, the runes on its blade glowing as the light catches them. 

The demon’s eyes flick towards the knife. By now, word’s gotten out and most of Hell’s residents know about the nifty little toy in the Winchester’s possession. It makes the demons pause, but that’s all. Dean clenches his fists and rages behind his gag that he was stupid enough to leave all of his weapons behind at the motel. It was a stupid decision, but who could have predicted the need for salt rounds on a simple trip to the bar?

Sam could have. Sam manages to predict everything, but oh well, that’s just what you get for being a giant, smug moose. 

A giant, smug moose, who’s currently getting thrown across the room. 

Dean shouts around the gag in his mouth as Sam crashes into the wall. The constant, dull thrum of rage that always seems to simmer just below the surface of his skin flares into a wild conflagration. Sam is  _ hurt,  _ Sam’s not getting up--

“Aw Dean.” The demon slithers forward, a parody of a smile stretching at the edges of her crimson lips. “Did I interrupt your kidnapping?” Her smile splits the seams of her pretty face, promising all sorts of horrors. Her voice drops down low, insinuating. “Or did I interrupt something a little more...exciting?” 

She boxes him in with her narrow shoulders and hips. Her fingers clamp on Dean’s thighs, nails digging in through the denim like talons. She bends over low enough that her shirt gaps open, revealing a good sight worth of cleavage. Normally Dean would be more interested in this development, but he’s more focused on her pitch-black eyes and the faint scent of sulfur clinging to her skin. “We’re going to have so much fun,” she whispers, dragging her fingernails down the side of his face. 

Dean futilely snarls his displeasure as he tries to jerk away from her touch. The demon’s fingers tighten on his chin, forcing him still. Her tongue lolls obscenely out of her mouth before she licks at his jawline. “Oh Dean, the sounds we’re going to pull from you…” 

Five gunshots ring out in quick succession. The tang of cordite fills the air, challenging the sulfur for superiority. The demon snarls as she springs away from Dean. Jagged holes appear in her arms and torso, blood dribbling down her skin. Another gunshot rings out, and a dark wound gapes at the base of her throat. The demon spits. A thin trickle of blood runs down the bridge of her nose and pools at the corner of her mouth. “What the--” Her eyes focus on a spot just over Dean’s shoulder. “Who the hell are you?” 

Dean’s heart performs an odd series of loops as Cas steps into view. His hands are steady as he points his gun at the demon. “Back off.” His voice wobbles in the middle of the command, but the intent is clear. 

Too bad his bravado is all for nothing. 

When a demon laughs, the world shivers. Dean finds that he’s no exception as the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise in an instinctive rejection of the noise. Cas is worse. A shudder rolls through his body and he buckles in a way that usually indicates retching. With his gun lowered, he’s an easy target, and a flick of the demon’s fingers sends him sprawling. 

Dean winces at the hollow, wet sound Cas’ body makes as it hits the wall. A small pained groan comes from him, and then he’s silent. Dean cranes his head backwards, as far as it will go, in an attempt to get a glimpse of Sam. The little he can see is not reassuring. Sam’s eyes are fluttering, so he’s not dead or unconscious, but he’s not getting up anytime soon. Cas is sprawled next to him. He’s also blinking, but his movements are slow and dazed. 

The demon drags Dean’s attention back to her with a harsh yank of his jaw. “Just you and me now, pretty boy.” The demon slides into Dean’s lap, smearing blood over his shirt. Her motions are too sinuous to be considered even remotely human as she writhes on his thighs. Disgust bubbles in Dean’s stomach as she licks a long stripe up his neck. 

The cloth forced between Dean’s teeth muffles his words. The demon rolls her eyes before she yanks it out, none too gently. “You were saying?” 

Dean sucks in a deep breath before he starts chanting. “ _ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas--”  _ A vicious backhand cuts him off. His teeth score the inside of his lip and he tastes blood. 

“An exorcism?” The demon laughs around the rage-filled curl of her lips. “You’ve got to be joking.” 

Dean spits. “ _ Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio--” _

Pointed nails dig into his cheeks as the demon tilts his head up. “When we’re through with you, you won’t even have the strength to scream.” 

She lifts up her hand, to do what, Dean doesn’t know, but she’s stopped by the sharp sound of a gunshot. A neat little hole appears in the palm of her hand. 

“I said,  _ back off.”  _

Blood gushes freely from a gash just underneath Cas’ hairline. When he wipes it away from his cheek, he leaves crimson smears along his cheek. He’s breathing heavily, and his arm is definitely shaking. But he’s upright, holding his gun, and looking like he’s going to take on this demon with nothing else other than his Sig Sauer. It’s so ridiculously reckless that Dean almost likes him for it. 

Sam’s voice rings through the room. It’s a little weak, but the familiar Latin of the exorcism rattles off his tongue easily enough. Taking advantage of the demon’s momentary distraction, Dean joins him. Doubled in strength, the exorcism rolls through the room, shaking at the windows. The demon snarls. Something bestial and dangerous is caught in the inhumanely low register of the sound. Her head jerks, at an angle that no human could ever achieve, and her eyes flash black in warning. 

“You think this will stop us?” she pants. Despite the violent juddering of her body, she laughs. It’s a wild, broken, brittle sound that scrapes down Dean’s spine. “You killed him, you and your thrice damned father. We’ll never stop hunting you, not until we rip off your heads and put them on the gates of Hell--”

“ _ Audi nos!”  _ Sam shouts. 

A rush of black smoke erupts from the girl’s mouth as an unearthly scream ricochets through the room. Wind whips and tears at Dean’s face, bringing tears to his eyes, but he watches as the smoke disappears into the floor and leaves a smoldering circle in its wake. 

An unearthly hush descends upon the room, the kind which appears after storms and cataclysmic events. Underneath the deadly stillness, Dean can barely hear the unsteady rattle of his breathing. 

Sam’s the first to speak. “We’ve got to get moving. We don’t know who she called for reinforcements--”

“No.” 

Cas stumbles forward. His confusion is clear, but his arm is steady as he aims his gun in their direction. Reluctant admiration wars with furious frustration. “No,” Cas repeats, the old steel returning to his expression. “You’re going to tell me--I need to--What the  _ hell _ was that?”

It’s not appropriate. But Dean can’t help it. 

He throws his head back and laughs.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Castiel doesn’t know much, but what he does know, he clings to. 

That woman, that... _ whatever _ she was, lies motionless in the doorway of the motel room. Lights are already flickering on, silent watchmen of the cowards who were either too afraid or too apathetic to investigate the situation while it was happening. It’s only after the blood and dust have settled that they dare poke their heads out of their burrows. For every light which glimmers into life, he feels the claws of urgency sink in deeper. In his experience, it doesn’t take long to transition from porch lights to flashing lights. While his badge will easily explain his presence in the midst of two wanted fugitives, he doesn’t have a good explanation as to how five bullets from his gun found their way into a dead woman’s body. 

He’d shot her. He’d shot her in the head, in the throat, and in the chest, and she hadn’t died. She hadn’t even stopped. She’d paused, like a bloody hole in the throat was a minor inconvenience along the lines of breaking a nail, but she hadn’t…

“We’re leaving,” Castiel says. He can figure this out later, when the Winchesters are in custody and he’s at least five hundred miles away from this shitshow of a job. Cautious of the murderous light in Sam Winchester’s eyes, he never lowers his gun. 

“Like fuck,” Dean snarls. The cuffs clink against the chair as he renews his struggles. Castiel keeps himself between Sam and his brother. “Sam,  _ come on.” _

“Sam Winchester, I bear you no ill will. Please don’t make me shoot you.” Transporting a bleeding gunshot victim is always difficult. Paperwork and questions multiply when bullets come into play. 

“Sammy, grow a pair and--” Dean stops, listening. In the distance, sirens start wailing and blue lights flash closer. 

Sam’s eyes flicker between Castiel, Dean, and the woman’s body. Castiel thinks of the scant information offered about Sam Winchester. Staggeringly intelligent, to the point where Stanford University took notice. Logical. Pragmatic. 

“Goddamnit,” Sam finally breathes. 

Despite his size, Sam moves quickly. A vault over a bed puts him next to the door. Castiel lunges forward to follow him, but stops when Sam points his gun directly at his forehead. There’s a light in his eyes warning Castiel that, if pushed, Sam won’t hesitate to shoot. “Don’t follow me,” he warns. “You’ve got my brother in cuffs, so don’t for a second think that I won’t be back to kick your ass.” 

“Take good care of my wheels!” Dean bellows as Sam bolts into the night. The roar of an engine and squeal of tires tells Castiel that one of his targets has escaped. Failure snaps at his heels and wraps hot and humiliating around his chest, and Castiel forces it back. That’s to be worried about another time. For now, he needs to get himself and Dean out of here. 

“Hurry the fuck up at least,” Dean bites out. He accepts his brother’s desertion with more grace than Castiel would have expected. “I don’t think that fake badge you’re waving around is going to explain a dead body.” 

“It’s not fake,” Castiel mutters, ducking to the side of Dean’s chair to work at the cuffs. However, Dean’s only voicing the worries which are in his own head. If he were more coherent and not in quite so much pain, he might worry at how similar his and Dean’s minds seem to work. 

He has to release one of Dean’s hands in order to unwind the cuffs from the chair. His haste and injuries turn him stupid and keep him from taking the proper precautions. He doesn’t even see Dean’s hand moving until it slaps against his ear. 

With his vision blurring and ears ringing, it’s all Castiel can do to cling to consciousness. He sags to the side, gasping as pain washes over him in a wave. Agony splits through his skull and reverberates inward; he’d be willing to bet that his collision with the wall earlier left him with a concussion, and Dean’s blow has ripped away some of the fragile threads still tethering him to consciousness. Fingers fist in his hair and yank upwards, forcing his body into an awkward bend. Castiel bites back a groan, as he desperately tries to pull himself together. 

“I told you,” Dean shakes him like a recalcitrant puppy; Castiel groans as his stomach churns, “that if you laid a hand on Sam I was going to end you.” Vivid, white-hot pain explodes through his skull, brought on by Dean’s forehead slamming into his. 

Castiel hits the ground and wheezes. The motel carpet is dank beneath his cheek. He clings to the clarity which the rough texture gives him as he fights off the impending darkness at the edges of his vision. He clings to the scrapes of consciousness through nothing more than sheer force of will. All the while, visions of monsters who get shot but don’t die slam into him, along with the scream of sirens and the knowledge that law enforcement is rapidly approaching. 

Castiel digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands and forces himself to move. He knocks Dean’s hand down and uncuffs Dean’s other hand from the chair. It takes all of his strength to recuff Dean, but he manages. With Dean once more restrained, Castiel retains control of the situation, though he’s willing to admit it’s a tenuous position. 

“Cas. Get the knife.” Castiel blinks stupidly at Dean, whose focus is not on the open door, but rather instead on the curious weaponry which Sam must have left behind. Castiel turns to leave, but he stops when he hears the almost fearful plea in Dean’s voice. “Cas, I’m serious. If you get that knife, I promise I won’t give you any trouble and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just please don’t leave the knife behind.” 

Castiel’s brain is fuzzy, working slowly to make connections and conclusions. He’s compromised, weak, which is why he listens to Dean. He bends down, picks up the wicked, serrated blade, and shoves it into his belt. 

He hopes Dean doesn’t realize just how weak he feels as they make their way out of the room and towards his truck. His hands are shaking as he opens the back door and shoves Dean in. He doesn’t know how far he’ll make it before exhaustion forces his body to stop. He just hopes that it’s far enough away to avoid suspicion. 

He peels out of the parking lot, just minutes ahead of the first police cruisers. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Dean wasn’t exactly expecting Sam to stick around, but it would have been nice to know what his plan was. That Sam has a plan, he has no doubt; he knows what the fierce promise burning in Sam’s eyes means. And Dean understands the reasons behind Sam’s flight. With the police approaching, a dead body in the room, and Cas promising not to go down without a fight that would take too long to indulge, it’s not like he had a lot of other choices. He doesn’t begrudge Sam his freedom, but it doesn’t mean Dean enjoys being held captive in the backseat of Cas’ truck, while the bounty hunter drives erratically through the night. 

He tries to glare a hole in the back of Cas’ head, for all the good it does either of them. Cas hasn’t spoken since he put Dean in the car. If it weren’t for the fact that the truck keeps relatively straight in its course, Dean would assume Cas is unconscious. He was injured pretty badly in the last fight, enough so that a simple hit to the side of the head almost laid him out flat. 

Dean would be lying if he didn’t find enjoyment in that. Still, it doesn’t help him now to have Cas pass out, not when he’s behind the wheel of a moving vehicle going down the road at least 65 miles an hour. He tries to gauge Cas’ alertness, but it’s hard from the backseat, especially when Cas refuses to speak. Dean knows there are thousands of questions crowding his mind; he’d seen them in Cas’ eyes as they stepped around the body of the poor, doomed woman. Whether or not Cas will voice any of them remains to be seen. 

Cas’ silence doesn’t last nearly as long as Dean was expecting it to. 

From the little he’s seen of Cas so far, Dean can still guess that he’s a stubborn person nigh incapable of admitting his mistakes and ignorance. Which is well and good enough; Dean’s been accused of the same by Sam. Still, his meager guesses at Cas’ personality hinted that the question would be asked later, if at all. Instead, they’re only on the road for about twenty minutes when Cas finally asks, “That woman, in the motel room. What… what was she?”

Dean bites his lip. He’s still consumed by impotent anger: fury that he was stupid enough to get caught, rage that Cas dared to hit Sam even after he was warned, and most of all, the lingering frustration that after everything he and Sam have done, they still have assholes like Cas on their trail. The small, mean part of him fueled by those emotions wants to ignore Cas’ question and let him stew in his own ignorance. 

The other part of him, the softer part that somehow still exists beyond all attempts to destroy it, acknowledges that Cas stood up when he didn’t have to, when he knew that doing so might very well be a death sentence. There’s a possibility he owes his life, as well as Sam’s, to Cas. A gun might not do shit against a demon, but Cas gave him and Sam time to recover so they could properly exorcise the demon. Add that to the fact that by the simple act of pulling the trigger, Cas has no doubt irrevocably fucked his life up, and Dean’s obligation is clear. 

“You sure you want to know?” he asks. He has to give Cas one last chance to live in ignorance, one last chance to preserve whatever innocence he might have held onto. Once Cas knows the truth, he can’t unknow it. Once he peers into the dark underbelly of Dean’s life, it will stay with him forever. He at least owes Cas the courtesy of a choice. 

“Dean.” Dean has to admire the guy. He took two hits from a demon, several from Sam, and even more from Dean, and he’s still capable of putting thunder into his voice. “Do you know how good of a shot I am?”

“I’d say you could hit the broad side of a barn.” 

Cas’ eyes are steady in the rearview mirror. “Trust me when I say I’m accurate. I shot that woman in the head, chest, and throat. So why didn’t she die? What  _ was  _ she?”

“Cas, trust me. Even though you put me in cuffs and refuse to do anything fun about it, I’m trying to do you a favor.” Really, his evasiveness comes from a place of concern, and not just a desire to fuck with Cas the only way he can. 

“Fine.” Cas’ eyes disappear from the rearview mirror. “I’ll find the answers on my own.” 

Fuck, if that’s not the worst idea Dean ever heard. People who go on their own to look for answers end up dead. Sam and Dean had Dad, Bobby had Rufus, and John had Missouri. Dean exhales and, with one sentence, rips away the curtain protecting Cas from everything that goes bump in the night. 

“She was a demon.” 

Normally, when Dean breaks the truth to civilians, he tries to dip their toes into the water rather than throws them into the deep end. But Cas already emptied a full mag into a demon, so is there really any easing in to be done? 

Cas doesn’t flinch. His hands never waver from the steering wheel. He meets Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“There’s no such thing as demons.” 

Cas might like to play stoic; hell, he might even buy his own press. But Dean hears the wobble that begs Dean to say he’s joking, that this world is just what it says on the tin, that if you dig your fingernails into the dirt and pull a little, you won’t find anything other than more dirt. Cas wants to sweep Dean’s entire existence under the rug. Dean’s fine with that. Most of the time he prefers it that way. 

But Cas needs to know. 

“Cas, demons are real, they’re here on this earth, and one of them walked into the motel room earlier tonight.” 

“Demons are… They’re church stories, made up to scare children.” 

Even though Cas is a cockteasing asshole who lures people in with great hair and a great ass and then arrests them in bathrooms, Dean still wishes that this could be better for him. This conversation shouldn’t take place in the cab of a truck while they’re speeding away from a crime scene. It shouldn’t take place when Cas is clinging to the edges of consciousness out of sheer stubbornness, while Dean is handcuffed in the backseat. 

“Cas.” Dean doesn’t do gentle, but sometimes he makes the effort. “You know what came through that door wasn’t human. You know it. Nothing human could survive those shots.” 

He leaves the thought to fester, which it does, for several long minutes. Dean slides to the opposite side of the backseat, so he can see a sliver of Cas’ face and get a hint of his thoughts. As usual, Cas remains difficult and gives him nothing. 

Several long minutes pass before Cas speaks again. “What exactly is a demon?”

Cas is one of those rare people who approach the news analytically. He wants to understand. Dean can help.

“Demons are souls that were condemned to Hell and had all humanity tortured out of them. All that’s left is just...hatred. Greed. Destruction. They don’t remember anything about being human. They can’t even fake it.” 

“What did...what did that one want? Why did she know you? Why was she after you?”

“That’s a bit of a long story. Better to start at the beginning.” Dean takes a deep breath as he prepares to lead yet another person down the rabbit-hole. “What you have to know is that all the things you thought couldn’t be true--witches, vampires, werewolves--they’re all real.” 

Cas gives him a flat look in the rearview mirror. “You expect me to believe magic is real?”

“Not magic, this isn’t Hogwarts. I’m talking about nightmares. Things that you hope to god aren’t true because they’re so ugly that once you see them, you’re never going to sleep the same way again. Ghouls. Rugarus. Demons. They’re all real, they all kill people and Sam and I...we hunt them.” 

Cas sputters out a laugh that’s more shock than mockery. After a moment, he looks into the rearview mirror to catch Dean’s eyes. “Why?” 

It’s not the first time that he’s been asked that question but here, in the backseat of Cas’ truck, Dean finds that he can’t easily muster up a glib answer. “Because we have to,” he says. The raw honesty of the answer surprises him. “I have to.” 

“Right. Right.” The distracted tone in Cas’ voice doesn’t raise any alarms, but the slow drift of the truck towards the guardrail does. Dean lunges forward over the partition of the front seat to look at Cas. His face is drawn and pale, in stark contrast to the bright crimson streaked down his cheek. His eyelashes flutter on his cheek as his slack mouth falls open. “Cas!” 

Cas startles. A hard jerk of the steering wheel puts the truck back between the lines. Dean’s body lurches, but he manages to keep himself upright. He leans forward again, head directly next to Cas’. “Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill us? What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Apologies.” Even when Cas is pale and shaking, his voice still manages to stay drier than the Sahara. “I think you’ll find that I’m not in the best of shape right now.” 

Which is probably true, but still. If Dean’s going to be killed, he’d rather go out in a blaze of glory, fighting against some asshole bent on world domination, or going at it single-handedly against the hordes of hell. Not handcuffed in an old, run-down truck with a passed out bounty hunter. “Christ, pull over would you? We’re far enough away from that mess. No one’s coming looking for us tonight.”

He gets another glare in the rearview for his trouble, but the truck slows its hurtle to a more sedate pace. Signs for upcoming motels start flashing past them. “Come on, Cas,” Dean tries, grinning when Cas looks sharply at him. “No funny business, I swear. I just don’t want to die because you wimped out on me.” 

Dean’s not surprised at Cas’ belligerent silence. He is surprised when Cas, after just a few more minutes, pulls into a motel parking lot. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says to Dean, as he gets out of the truck. Adding insult to injury, he locks the doors before he staggers towards the office. Like Dean could do anything with his hands cuffed behind the back in the wasteland of the backseat. Asshole. 

Cas returns a few moments later, key card in his hand. “Come on,” he mutters, opening the door and tugging at Dean’s elbow. He supports Dean as he stumbles out of the truck. Dean tries not to feel grateful for the help, even as Cas drags him to the second motel room of the night. This one, he opens with a key card, shoving Dean inside before slamming the door and locking it behind them. 

Dean can only roll his eyes when Cas grabs another pair of handcuffs (where is he keeping them?) and loops them through the slats of the headboard on the second motel bed, the one farthest from the door. He clicks them shut, tugging to make sure they’re secure. Dean’s hands are restrained above his head, which ensures numb arms and sore joints in the morning. 

Cas at least has the courtesy to at least stick a pillow behind his back and shoulders to relieve some of the strain. Cas leans in close enough to let Dean smell the almost faded scent of his cologne and the sour stink of fear and exhaustion. This close, he can see the bristles of Cas’ stubble as well as the purpling skin of his jaw. 

He waits until Cas pulls away and goes to his side of the room before he speaks. “You know I’m not lying to you. You know what’s out there now and what it can do. You know that putting me away is the wrong decision.” He rolls his shoulders to try and ease the pressure on them. If he makes it out of here without permanent damage to his arms, then it’ll be nothing short of a miracle. 

“I…” Cas sits down on the opposite bed. He drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I took a job. I have to see it through.” 

Dean clenches his jaw in frustration. Cas might be hot but talking to him is like talking to a brick wall, except a brick wall has the option of changing its opinion. 

“You know that if you put me away, I ain’t gonna stay that way,” Dean says, changing the tempo of his voice to low with the vaguest hint of threat lurking around the edges. “You know I’m going to get out, and when I do, the first thing I’m going to do is hunt down the person who turned me in.” 

Cas looks at him then, wry defeat writ on his expression. “Well, you’re welcome to try,” is all he says. 

Dean bites back his irritation. To distract himself, he tests the resistance of the headboard. The results are not encouraging. He could probably break it, if he absolutely had to, but it would also end with something of his getting broken as well. Better to wait. In his current state, Cas is bound to make a mistake sooner or later. 

It’s then that he notices the small trembles shivering through Cas’ body. He tries to touch the gash on his head, but his shaking hand drops limply into his lap. Cas’ face is chalk white, which makes the dried blood on his temple and cheek stand out all the more. 

“Cas?”

Cas’ eyes flutter. He finally manages to touch his fingers to the bleeding wound on his forehead. A soft groan falls from his lips. “I think I’m going to…” he slurs. The last bit of the sentence is lost as he slumps over, just barely remaining on the bed. 

“Cas? Cas!” Dean shouts and rattles his cuffs against the headboard, anything to make noise. He even tries to stretch out his leg so he can poke Cas, all to no avail. Cas is  _ out  _ on the other bed, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible as his breath rattles in the quiet room. 

Great. Here he is, cuffed to a bed with an unconscious, definitely badly concussed bounty hunter in the opposite bed. 

Also, he’s going to have to piss sometime within the next few hours. 

Fucking perfect. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. prisoners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel bolts upright, pupils contracting painfully in the light of the hotel room, and ignores the throb of agony lancing through him. 
> 
> Still handcuffed to the headboard, Dean Winchester glares at him from the opposite bed. 
> 
> “I have to piss,” he says, before adding, “You look like shit.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel is brought back to a begrudging consciousness by the furrows of pain tearing through his body. His head throbs and he can’t take a breath without a sharp stab of agony working its way through his chest. He’s intimately aware of every part of his body, even the parts which usually escape his notice. His shins hurt. The backs of his knees twinge with discomfort. 

Snatches of the previous night trickle into his brain. Dean Winchester. Fighting Dean Winchester. Secondhand agony lights in his ribs, his stomach, his back as he remembers each blow. Despite his pain, he keeps his eyes shut and breathing steady and listens to the room as he remembers--

Black eyes, black smoke, gunshots, and blood, and sulfur, and a body that never falls no matter how many times he shoots--

Castiel bolts upright, pupils contracting painfully in the light of the hotel room, and ignores the throb of agony lancing through him. 

Still handcuffed to the headboard, Dean Winchester glares at him from the opposite bed. 

“I have to piss,” he says, before adding, “You look like shit.” 

“Yes, well,” Castiel mumbles, gathering his strength and his patience and whatever else he’ll need to finish this thrice damned job. “You’re responsible for most of it, so I hope you’re proud of yourself.” 

He stumbles from the bed, moving with slow, stilted steps in hopes to hide exactly how badly he’s hurt. Dean’s voice follows behind him as he steps inside the bathroom. “Are you just going to leave me? Don’t I have rights or something?” 

Castiel grits his teeth and shuts the door, which at least muffles Dean’s numerous complaints. He relieves the pressure on his bladder while looking around the small room. No windows, which is good. He finishes and zips his pants up before he chances a glance in the mirror. 

It’s worse than he hoped, but not as bad as he feared. 

Dried blood is caked on his cheek, clinging to the stubble on his jaw. It’s easy enough to remove with a quick scrub from a washcloth. His split lip and swollen jaw are going to be with him for a time, as are the various other bruises which are revealed when he lifts up his shirt. His whole torso is a map of injuries, and there’s hardly a place he can touch without some kind of pain. At the very least, several of his ribs are cracked. A sharp stab of pain accompanies each deep breath. 

Still, he’s alive. Things could be worse. 

His phone is heavy in his back pocket, reminding him of the call he doesn't want to make. In some obscure way, he supposes he owes Dean his life, though he doesn’t think it would have been in danger in the first place had he not gotten involved with Dean. Such is life. It’s a series of circular decisions with no beginning and no end, and it leaves poor schmucks like Castiel stuck in the middle. Heavy thoughts for a mid-morning piss. 

He flicks his thumb over Michael’s number. It rings once before he answers. 

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you for several days,” Michael says reproachfully. 

Castiel blinks in surprise. Michael’s never been one to indulge in small talk but he normally spares a meager  _ Hello.  _ “I’ve been busy,” he answers. It's evasive, but he’s made a habit of never giving Michael the whole truth. Certainly not now, when he can taste Michael’s impatience at the other end of the line.

“You’re stalling. Unless you have anything of worth to tell me, I don't have any interest in talking to you.” 

Stung, Castiel drags the phone from his ear and stares at it. He’d known Michael was growing impatient, but he’d never anticipated this. 

“Dean Winchester is in custody,” he says, bringing the phone back to his ear. “We’re at the RestEasy Motel in Graymont, Illinois.” Castiel looks down at the small pad of paper provided by the motel to rattle off an address. 

“And what of Sam Winchester?” 

Castiel sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose, then hisses in pain as he nudges against one of his many bruises. “Sam Winchester is not in custody. There was an...altercation, and he escaped.” 

The silence on the other end of the phone is ominous. When Michael speaks, thunder rolls through his voice. “He escaped? I trusted you to take care of this, Castiel! You assured me you were capable! I should have known better, with all the times you managed to fuck up even the easiest of tasks. Why did I assume this time would be any different?” 

Castiel swallows. He should be used to this, but there’s an extra edge of cruelty in Michael’s words. “Regardless of your feelings on the younger brother, Dean Winchester remains in custody. As protocol dictates, I will remain at the location I gave you for forty-eight hours, after which time I will move myself and the fugitive as necessary.” 

“We’ll be there within sixteen hours. And Castiel? Try not to screw up again.” 

Michael hangs up. His sudden absence makes Castiel weak in the knees, and he grabs onto the edge of the bathroom counter for support. He knew his brother hated him, how could he not know? But it’s never been thrown so baldly in his face before. It’s a small consolation when Castiel thinks that after this job, he’ll never speak to Michael again. In his smallest, most hopeful parts, he’d hoped that maybe one day, he could earn Michael’s respect. 

He pushes his emotions aside. After the job’s done, he’ll have plenty of time to lick his wounds and examine each and every rotten thing festering inside him. For the moment, he has an ornery Dean Winchester to deal with, not to mention the very real possibility of pursuit from an angry Sam Winchester. Having fought both of them yesterday, Castiel is disinclined to repeat the experience. 

He looks one more time at the mirror, trying to make himself borderline presentable as he walks back into the room. Dean’s ill-temper hasn’t improved in his absence. “Come on,” he says, twisting ever so slightly on the bed. “My turn now.” Castiel scans his face for a hint of a lie and finds none. 

“Don’t try anything,” he warns, before fishing in his back pocket for the keys. He hopes the note of command in his voice covers up his worry that he won’t be able to control Dean if he decides to cause trouble. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re all big and bad, I’ve got it. Look, I really have to take a piss, so if you could just get with the program, I promise I’ll be a good little boy.” He sneers, even as Castiel reaches over to undo the second set of handcuffs. 

This close, dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt, it becomes inevitable that Dean’s eyes find their way to the crook of his elbow. Castiel catches the moment Dean’s eyes light upon the neat little trail of marks scarred into his skin. Dean’s glance is swift and probing, but Castiel refuses to give him the slightest reaction. Let Dean Winchester think what he will. The thoughts of a probable criminal aren’t his concern. 

The second set of cuffs is released and Dean winces in pain as his stiff shoulders try to adjust to freedom. Without thinking, Castiel reaches up and eases Dean’s arms down into his lap. A soft noise of pain dies in Dean’s throat. Without thinking, Castiel rubs at Dean’s shoulders and biceps, easing blood flow back into the limbs. Another, even softer noise dies in Dean’s throat as Castiel’s thumbs work over the tense muscle. 

It’s not until Dean sighs that Castiel realizes what he’s doing. He pulls away, putting a safe distance between himself and Dean. He clenches his fists at his side. “Thanks, Cas. Didn’t know you cared.” 

“Despite what you might think of me, I’m not a monster.” The distance between them leaves enough space for Dean to stand up but not enough space for him to fight. 

Using the restroom will be an exercise in awkwardness, but with Dean’s hands cuffed in front of his body, it will at least be doable. Castiel’s cheeks heat as his mind gleefully shows him the alternatives: standing behind Dean, easing the zipper of his pants down with his nose pressed into the back of Dean’s neck, sliding his hands into Dean’s jeans and against his bare skin…

No, it’s much better for everyone if Dean’s allowed some expression of autonomy. 

Castiel closes the door to provide Dean with a sense of modesty, though he stays close by. He covers the sound of liquid splashing against the bowl by asking, “Would you like something to drink?” 

“Whiskey, if you’ve got it,” Dean answers. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of water from the vending machines outside. And I saw a menu for a Chinese delivery.” 

Dean sighs against the sound of him fumbling with his zipper. “Whatever you want. Guess I’d better enjoy my perks like shitty Chinese food now, right? No chance of lo mein in the big house.” 

There’s an edge to his voice, and for some reason, it sends an unfamiliar frisson of guilt along his spine. “As soon as you come out, I’ll make arrangements.” 

“Make arrangements.” Dean’s hands scrabble at the doorknob before he manages to twist it. “Don’t be fucking pretentious, Cas, you’re just ordering food.” 

The guilt disappears, as easily as though it had never existed. He grabs Dean by the elbow and marches him quickly back to the bed, where he secures his hands above his head. This time, Dean allows his eyes to wander openly over his track marks. It feels like an act of aggression. Castiel tenses as he waits for the inevitable question. Surprisingly, it never comes, leaving him to wonder if Dean is evincing some sort of tact. He quickly dismisses this idea. More than likely, he either doesn’t care, or he’s saving the question for when he feels it will do the most emotional damage. 

He holds to his original purpose. He doesn’t care what Dean Winchester thinks of him. He can’t. 

Castiel purposefully doesn’t allow himself to think of the events of the previous night. If he does, then he fears his mind will be sent gibbering into oblivion, never to return. He has to stick to what he knows; he has to stick to the job. And right now, the job entails taking care of them both. There were injuries on Dean’s body as well, dark bruises purpling his forearms and several scratches along his face and neck. 

“Don’t fucking try anything,” he orders, though by now he knows that giving orders to Dean Winchester is as useful as shouting at a hurricane. 

Dean casually flips him the bird. “Get your fucking water or whatever,” he sighs. “I’ll be good.” 

Castiel doubts the veracity of that statement, so he makes his trip to the vending machine as quickly as possible. He feeds quarters into the ancient machine and waits for it to spit out two lukewarm bottles of water. All the time, the back of his neck itches as though he’s being watched. That exhausted looking maid pushing the towel cart--is she truly what she appears, or is she a monster in disguise? A rumpled businessman squints at him from the parking lot--is he just nosy or is he planning an attack? 

Dozens of innocuous interactions shift through his head--was it just dark last night or did the hotel clerk’s eyes flash black? Was he too out of it to notice a car following them last night? Or is he just going mad and bringing up impossible scenarios to torture himself? 

By the time he makes it back to the room, he’s panting, heart pounding against the fragile confines of his chest. He rushes in and slams the door behind him, thinking only of his need to retreat, never wondering if there’s danger waiting in the room. It’s luck, and perhaps nothing more, that Dean is exactly where he left him, cuffed to the bed. He raises a brow when he takes stock of Castiel’s situation. 

“Either the vending machine was a hell of a lot further away than I thought or something happened.” Castiel ignores him as he flips the deadbolt and fastens the security chain. After seeing what the demon was capable of last night, he doubts something as flimsy as a chain will keep anything out of the room, but he can’t deny the security of having an additional barrier between himself and the rest of the world. 

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is sharp, dragging Castiel back from the nightmare spiral of his thoughts. “Cas, was something out there?” 

Far from alarming him, the fact that Dean shares his worry serves to calm him. Castiel presses his forehead against the cool wood of the door and breathes deep until he feels his heart calm. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, stopping Dean’s repeated callings of his name. “There were people out there, I don’t know what they…” He laughs, a shrill little thing caught in his throat. “How am I supposed to know?” 

“Did anyone look like they took a lot of interest in what you were doing? Or take a glance at you and then suddenly remember that they had business in the other room? You see any black eyes?” 

Castiel slowly shakes his head. “No, none of that. It looked normal, everyone looked normal, but then again, so did that woman at the bar last night.” 

Dean relaxes back into the headboard. “Yeah, they do that. There’s a few tricks hunters can use to suss them out, but for the most part, the deck’s stacked against us.” 

Castiel’s interest sharpens. “How? How can you tell the difference between a, a...and a real person?” 

An unkind laugh rolls out of Dean’s mouth. “No offense Cas, but I’m not really in the mood to do you any favors. Or did I  _ not _ hear you calling your contact earlier this morning, telling him where to pick me up?” 

“You’ve got good ears,” Castiel says faintly. 

“A requirement in my line of work.” Dean’s mouth twists in a cruel smile. “So yeah, considering that you’re getting ready to sell me and my brother out, you can go fuck yourself.” 

If any common sense remained in his brain, Castiel would gag Dean and wait out the remaining hours in peace. This job has been cursed from the very beginning. The best thing he could do is finish it with whatever modicum of professionalism and sanity he retains. 

Then he thinks about last night, helplessness and terror clogging in his throat as he confronted an unkillable, unstoppable opponent, and the panic clawing through his chest when he realized he could no longer trust his own instincts. He can’t live that way, always looking over one shoulder, always terrified the next person he talks to is someone intent upon his destruction. 

Castiel looks at Dean and makes the worst decision of his life. 

“My name is Castiel Novak. I was born September 18, 1975. I don’t have a permanent address, but my mailing address is a P.O. Box in Pontiac, Illinois, which is the city I consider my base of operation. My brother is Michael Novak, Assistant Director of the F.B.I.’s mid-Western offices. It was under his authority that I was tasked with bringing you in, and if you tell me everything that I want to know, then I promise I’ll let you go.” 

Dean looks at him, his eyes wide and surprised. By dumping that information on him, Castiel’s given him more than enough that, if Dean truly wanted, he could easily track him down and make his life a living hell. It’s an exercise in trust between the two of them. Quite apart from his personal safety, there’s also his professional pride. With those simple statements, Castiel knows he’s tanked his career. Considering Michael’s current mood, it’ll be amazing if his brother doesn’t press charges against him. Castiel finds himself strangely unconcerned. More than his need for information, there’s his growing belief in his gut that letting Dean go is the right course of action to take. He doesn’t think he’ll lose a wink of sleep over letting Dean out of the cuffs. 

Now all that remains is to find out if Dean feels the same. 

Dean blinks away his shock, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he recovers. “Fine. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, and you’ll let me go. And I’d better not see you again. Once you let me out of these cuffs, we’re done. If Sam or I ever catch sight of you again, we won’t be so kind.” 

“Of course.” Castiel ignores the strange ache in his chest at the thought of never seeing Dean again. No doubt he’s aggravated some of his injuries.

“Well then.” Dean settles back into the pillows, comfortable as a sultan on his throne. “What do you want to know?” 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Cas continues to surprise. 

Well.  _ Castiel  _ continues to surprise. 

There wasn’t a hint of a lie on Cas’ face as he dumped the details of his life into Dean’s lap. He had to know he was giving Dean more than enough ammo to come after him, and yet he’d done it anyway. That, along with Cas’ promise of freedom, is enough to make Dean consider him in a new light. But, information and offer notwithstanding, he is still the dick who cuffed Dean and hit Sam in the face, which means Dean is obligated to do everything in his power to make his life vaguely miserable. 

“I’m thirsty,” he says, batting his eyes at Cas. “Throat’s dry.” He coughs demurely into his shoulder. 

Cas rolls his eyes but reaches for the water bottle. He twists off the cap as he walks over to Dean, holding the bottle at his lips. 

Well. He wanted some kind of freedom, but this is ok too, if a little humiliating. Still, Dean can’t deny the squirm of guilty pleasure he gets from having Cas stand over him, focused and intent, tilting the water bottle to his lips. He makes sure to flick his tongue at the bottle’s rim while never taking his eyes off of Cas. It takes Cas several long seconds to withdraw to the other bed and his departure leaves Dean feeling strangely cold. 

Oh, the possibilities they could have had, if Cas wasn’t an asshole, and demons weren’t bigger assholes. Speaking of which, he and Cas have a bargain to fulfill. 

“So, what do you want to know?” Dean shifts in a vain attempt to get comfortable. He wishes Cas would have uncuffed him for this conversation, but he understands Cas’ logic. If Cas were to uncuff him, it’s all too possible that he could run off without giving any of the information. If he were in Cas’ position, he doesn’t know that he would be any more trusting. It still doesn’t ease the ache in his shoulders. 

“Tell me everything,” Cas says, his voice a little terse. “But we’re on a timeline. My contact said they would send a team in sixteen hours, and I’d like at least a few hours head start before they come looking.” Some of his confusion must show on his face because Cas smiles, tiny and close-lipped. “My associates are not known for their tolerance of their pawns going off script. My absence will be rendered prudent.” 

“Well, full offense, but your associates sound like a bunch of dicks.” 

Castiel’s wry smile remains. “They do indeed.” 

The moment hangs between them, soft and comfortable. For a moment, Dean fools himself into thinking he and Cas are friends. 

The bite of the cuffs into his wrists snaps him back into reality. Cas might not be as big of an asshole as he first thought; in fact, he might even pass for decent. But he and Dean won’t ever be more than vitriolic allies. 

“All right. Well, hold onto your butts.” 

Before Dean can plan out the parts to share and the parts to keep to himself, his mouth opens and out pours his whole sordid history, starting with his mother and a house fire. He’s alternatively amazed and horrified with himself, but he doesn’t stop, not even when the tales of John Winchester come tumbling free. Cas’ eyes spark with interest as he talks about his father, and Dean clamps his jaw shut. This is shit he hasn’t told anyone--not Sam, not Cassie, not even Bobby. Like hell he’s going to spill his guts to Cas. 

He shifts the talk from the Winchester’s dirty secrets and focuses instead on tricks of the trade: how to tell a shifter from a regular person (easiest way to tell is to catch the flare of their eyes on camera), how to kill a vampire (decapitation), and, most importantly, everything he knows about demons. 

“They always smell like sulfur and if they’re strong enough, they’ll leave traces behind, disgusting yellow smears on things like windows and doors. They like to flash those pretty black eyes whenever they’re trying to intimidate someone, but if you’re close enough to see them, then, generally speaking, it’s already too late. If you’re not sure, you can say  _ Christo.  _ That will cause a reaction, but it should give you time to run.” 

Cas listens with the intense focus of a convert. “How do you kill them?” 

Dean shrugs, ignoring the faint protest of his shoulders. “Pretty much, you don’t.” 

Cas looks unimpressed by his answer. Dean tries not to feel insulted. “Sam and I have only found two ways to truly kill a demon. The first was the Colt.” Dean swallows at the memories of the gun, which are intrinsically tied to memories of his father. “We don’t have that anymore. It was destroyed.” Thankfully, Cas must see something in his face, and refrains from asking how or why. “The only other thing we’ve found that can kill a demon is that pretty knife which you lifted last night.” He looks pointedly at Cas’ bag, where he knows the knife is stashed. “For whatever reason, that can actually kill a demon. Other than that, the only way to get rid of a demon is to exorcise it, which is what happened last night. It won’t kill them, but it will send them back to hell, and it takes them a while to crawl out of there.” 

“So last night, you sent that demon back to hell? What happened to the woman?” 

“That woman was a host or a vessel if you want to be fancy. A meatsuit if you don’t. Demons don’t have a real corporeal form, so in order to be effective they have to crawl up inside a human, like the nastiest parasite you can imagine, times twenty. A demon takes over their host and uses them like a puppet. Once a demon takes over, that’s it--they have access to all your memories, your personality, and they don’t play nicely with their toys. That woman was probably long dead before you put the first bullet in her. The majority of people don’t survive possession. Sam and I try to save them, but…” Dean shrugs and ignores the sick squirming of his stomach. 

The bitter truth is that he and Sam stopped trying to save possession victims. Nine times out of ten, the meatsuits were dead after the exorcism. And an exorcism, while helpful in the short-term, isn’t a long-term solution. Demons crawl back out of hell all the time, and they’ll continue to do so until someone puts them down. Cas’ wide eyed naivety is a slap in the face to his cynicism. 

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t press him any further about the idea of demons and vessels. Instead, he taps his chin with one finger. “That demon, last night, she acted like she knew you. Like her grudge was personal. Why?” 

“I have that effect on people.” 

“Dean. I thought we promised that we would be honest with each other.” 

“Hey, other than information, I didn’t promise shit to you.” Cas’ expression is all thunderclouds and rainstorms, and Dean would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little hot. “All right, don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

He takes a deep breath. There’s too much history in this story, too much of his mother and his father, too much of himself and Sam, too much horror wrapped in too many of his mistakes. But a deal’s a deal and Cas hasn’t given him any reason to doubt that he’ll hold up his end of the bargain. 

He begins with Azazel, his vision to rule Hell, and how that vision had included his ‘special children’ of whom Sam Winchester was one. He tells Cas how Azazel managed to corrupt every part of his life, starting with his mother’s death and continuing on into his father’s quest for revenge. He tells how Sam tried to run away from the life, all the way to Stanford, and how even that wasn’t far enough, how Azazel reached his filthy fingers into Sam’s idealistic life and snatched away his girlfriend, sending him on the same road which their father had taken years before. He gets to the meat of the story when he tells Cas about how John Winchester had finally managed to track down not only the demon who had killed his wife and his son’s girlfriend, but how he’d also managed to find the gun capable of killing him. 

The plan was to lure Azazel to their location, dangling knowledge of Sam in front of him, and then use the Colt to end him. It was Dean’s fault that the plan fell apart. He’d been responsible for one thing: pulling the trigger and ending the demon. Then Azazel had crawled inside John and Dean had found himself unable to complete the most basic of tasks. He hadn’t been able to pull the trigger, not even when faced with the snarling, yellow-eyed demon responsible for killing his mother. Instead, he held the Colt in his impotent and shaking hands, and watched the demon pour out of his father’s mouth in a swirl of black smoke, seeking its freedom. 

Such a simple plan, and Dean had fucked it up. It had been up to Dad to save them from his fuckup. After a disastrous car accident, Dad had summoned Azazel to save Dean’s life, offering up not only the Colt but himself as leverage. Dean had watched his father make the deal as an incorporeal spirit, hovering somewhere in the veil between life and death, incapable of making even the smallest change to the corporeal world. He screamed and railed, begged his father not to make the deal, but John hadn’t heard him as he signed away his life for his son’s. Azazel had accepted, and they had shaken, but before Azazel had a chance to claim the Colt, John had seized it and put a bullet directly between Azazel’s eyes. The last thing Dean had seen, before he slammed back into his body, was both his father and Azazel crumpling to the floor. 

“So that’s why they hate us. Dad’s dead, and they have to blame someone for Azazel’s death. Their new leader calls herself Meg. Not much of a name to strike fear into the hearts of millions, but she’s a nasty piece of work. She’s been hunting me and Sam now for a while.” Dean smiles mirthlessly. “Like a dog with a bone, that wacky little demon.” 

Castiel nods. His eyes are a little glazed, his mind obviously elsewhere. Dean understands. It’s a lot of information to take in at one time. Sometimes, the absurdity of his life overwhelms even him. 

“Do you ever get tired?” 

The suddenness of the question startles a laugh out of Dean before he stops to actually consider. Living his life from motel to motel, always on the lookout just in case some demon’s managed to get their location, the nightmares and horrors crowding his waking and sleeping mind…

“Shit, Cas,” Dean chuckles, “I think I’ve been tired since I was about ten years old.” 

“I understand.” The funny thing is, Dean thinks that Cas might be one of the few people on this earth who actually does understand the toll that hunting takes. 

He can’t stop thinking about the line of scars along the inside of Cas’ elbow, and how little they seem to match with the man sitting in front of him. Not that Dean doesn’t understand the urge to escape; he was never allowed even that small freedom. There were stories of hunters caught unaware and eviscerated by a monster looking for easy prey, or worse, hunters who had a bad trip and ended up surrounded by bodies. Dean would bury his emotions in alcohol like the best of them. 

His eyes betray his thoughts as they land in the crook of Cas’ arm. Cas notices his gaze (there’s little escapes his attention) and acknowledges it with a small, bitter smirk. “You want to ask, so ask.” 

Dean blushes at being caught out, but still gathers up his courage. He makes the question as nonchalant as possible, to the point where it isn’t a question anymore. “You just don’t seem the type is all.” 

Castiel’s mouth twists in bitterness. “Leaving aside for a moment what you consider ‘the type’...” He shrugs, picking at a small imperfection on the comforter. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. I was weak, I got better.” 

Dean’s not much with the touchy-feely therapy bullshit, that’s way more Sam’s field of expertise, but even he knows there’s something wrong with that outlook. “You were weak? What the hell kind of bullshit is that?”

He’s not expecting Cas’ shoulders to slump in, like he’s protecting himself from imaginary blows. “Plenty of people make it through life just fine without resorting to…” Cas’ thumb presses unerringly along his scars. The thoughtlessness of the gesture tells Dean that Cas isn’t fully aware of his own movements. “It’s weakness to want to make your circumstances other than what they are. True strength is dealing with the hand you’ve been dealt.” 

Dean scoffs. “That’s a load of crap.” Cas’ head snaps up, his eyes narrow slits. He looks like he’s about to start arguing, so Dean just cuts him off at the pass. “Seriously, I’ve never met someone who didn’t want to make their circumstances other than what they were, and some people go about it way worse than you ever did.” 

He didn’t tell Cas about one of the worst parts of the job, those times when he and Sam went in search of monsters and found nothing but people behind the deaths. Werewolves don’t usually have a choice in the matter, vampires will kill for survival. Some of the people he’s come across? They’ll kill for sheer pleasure. 

“Michael had to pick me up off the streets; it could have cost him his job if someone had found out.” Cas’ voice is wooden, like he’s reciting lines in a shitty play. “He paid for a hotel room for two weeks and left me there. Told me to either get clean or disappear. Either way, that was the end of his responsibility.” Cas shrugs. “I got myself clean, and I’ve been working to try and pay him back ever since. It’s my own fault, if I hadn’t--” 

“Shut up,” Dean interrupts, never once wondering why he’s giving Cas a pep talk. If he were to suppose, which he’s not, then he would guess it’s because he doesn’t like seeing Cas look so downtrodden. That’s a whole can of worms Dean doesn’t ever want to open, so he promptly steers away from that thought. Instead, he delivers a heart wrenching speech that Sam would be proud of. 

“Get over yourself.” 

It is possible Sam would not be proud of this speech.

“Beg your pardon?” Cas’ voice is an icy hiss. Something in Dean hums in interest, but he crushes that down, with everything else he’s not thinking about. 

“I mean it, stow your crap and get over yourself. I’m not saying I ain’t sympathetic, but you haven't done anything worse than the rest of us. You picked a shitty coping mechanism, that’s all. Shit, you think it’s healthy for me to down a fifth of whiskey every time something doesn’t go my way? But I do because I don’t know anything else and I don’t really care enough to try anything else. Hell, at least you were able to walk away from yours.” 

Cas still doesn’t look convinced, but he at least looks a little less hangdog than he did previously. “We’re all stuck in the same shit, Cas,” Dean finishes, rolling his shoulders to try and find some comfort, “and none of us deal with it well.” 

A wan smile finds Cas’ face. “I suppose there’s some wisdom there.” His eyes flick to the handcuffs and his expression becomes more serious. “I suppose I should apologize.” 

“Yeah? For what?” Dean knows perfectly well what Cas is referring to, but he wants to hear Cas say it. 

Cas’ petulant frown tells Dean he’s wise to his game. “Had I known then what I know now, I probably wouldn’t have arrested you in that bathroom.” 

“Probably.” Dean raises an incredulous brow. “You  _ probably  _ wouldn’t have arrested me.” 

“Well, you were making quite the scene.” 

“That’s because you were trying to arrest me, you ass! If you hadn’t pulled that stunt, you and I could have had a hell of a lot better time.” 

Dean flushes. He hadn’t meant to say that last bit, but he doesn’t regret it, not when he notices the sudden heat in Cas’ eyes. “Is that so?” Cas tries to keep his voice nonchalant, but Dean notices the flick of his eyes over his body. 

“Yeah. Fun times to be had, if you hadn’t been a jackass about it.” 

“As I recall it, you were the one to put a gun to the back of my head.” 

“Aw, Cas, that’s just first base. I can’t say that I’m really interested in someone until I’ve held them at gunpoint at least once. You, on the other hand, need to work on your flirting. Very rude to rile a man up and then kick his feet out from under him.” 

“Just my way of ‘sweeping you off your feet’. Perhaps you were rounding first, but I was already sprinting towards second.” 

In spite of everything, including the fact that his hands are still cuffed to the bed, Dean grins. This is the Cas who so delighted him, the fun, sly, flirtatious Cas from the pool table. Dean would have really liked to have seen more of him. 

“We’ll have to have that fight again one day,” Dean says, intent on nothing more than luring Cas closer. 

Cas’ face darkens, but the fire in his eyes is undeniable. “Is that so?” he asks, voice thick and heated as he stalks forward. He stands less than an arm’s length away, close enough to touch. The cuffs bite harshly into Dean’s wrists as he unthinkingly tries to reach forward. 

The smile spreading across Cas’ face is positively sinful. His fingers trace the cuffs shackling Dean’s wrists, sparking fire in their wake. Dean tries to fight the shudder clawing through his body; judging from Cas’ pleased grin, he’s only partly successful. 

“What makes you think it’ll turn out any differently?” Cas’ thumb presses deliberately over Dean’s pulse. From there, he can feel the wildness of Dean’s heart. 

“I’m not saying that it would.” Dean swallows deliberately and licks at his lips, and watches with satisfaction as Cas’ eyes, the pupils blown wide, track the movement of his tongue. “I’m just saying we should have that fight again.” 

“Maybe later,” Cas murmurs, both of them willfully ignoring the fact that, for them, there is no later, only  _ now.  _ “For now, I think I like you just where you are.” 

Dean’s cock stirs in his pants, half-hard already just from the promise in Cas’ voice. He thinks, with a little more coaxing, Cas could be persuaded to straddle him, to allow Dean to rut up into his heat. 

“Yeah?” Dean says, perhaps not the most loquacious seduction, but he’s moved from verbal language to body language, tilting his head back to expose his throat, shifting so that his shirt rides up his stomach a few inches, spreading his legs in a wanton invitation. 

Castiel takes in a deep breath, his chest moving with the effort. His thumb presses into Dean’s wrist, fingers trailing over the exposed skin of his forearms, leaving goosebumps in their wake--

Someone pounds on the door, hard enough to rattle the windows. The percussion shakes through Dean’s teeth, along with the hot scorch of betrayal. Both he and Cas flinch away from each other like they’ve been burned. 

“Asshole, you fucking sold me out,” he seethes, fury roiling in his gut, not only for Cas, but for himself. He shouldn’t have expected anything from Cas, he’d been a fool to do so. 

But Cas had seemed so earnest and sincere, his eyes wide as they made their bargain--

No. He should have learned a long time ago that the only people he can trust are his family. He was a fucking idiot to think otherwise. 

“No, that’s not… They told me they wouldn’t be here for another eight hours,” Cas says. There’s a wildness in his eyes which says that maybe he’s telling the truth, but Dean doesn’t dare believe him. Not now.

Fists pound on the door again, angrier than before at being thwarted. An unfamiliar voice calls, “Castiel Novak? We’re authorized by the Federal Bureau of Investigation to take charge of your fugitive.” 

Cold fear wars with the white-hot anger. Henrickson was bad enough, and he’d had Sam with him then. Wherever the fuck Sam is now, it’s not  _ here,  _ where he could be doing some good. Asshole’s still probably formulating a plan, which is great and all, but at this rate, Dean’s going to be slapped in maximum security. 

“Open the door,” the voice demands, “or else we will be forced to break it down.” 

Castiel looks at Dean, his eyes rolling in barely concealed panic. “I  _ swear  _ Dean, I thought they were going to be here later, I wouldn’t lie--”

Two gunshots sound and Dean watches in muted horror as a round hole appears in the door’s lock. If Cas had been standing close by, they would have shot straight through him. 

The door opens with such force that it bounces off the wall with a dull thud. Three people, two men and a woman, enter the room, dressed in standard, cheap government suits, guns held at the ready. 

Cas’ face goes white when he sees them. “Michael,” he stammers, taking a step backwards. “What are you doing here?” 

The leader, a handsome, dark-haired man, looks at Cas with cold eyes and doesn’t answer. Those same eyes land on Dean and his expression turns greedy. Cold worry spreads through Dean’s gut. As bad as shit was, Dean gets the impression that it’s just gotten a hell of a lot worse. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	5. healers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean Winchester,” he says. A thin shred of revulsion slips down Castiel’s spine at the way Michael’s tongue curls around the syllables of Dean’s name. “You’ve given us the runaround for quite some time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a brief insinuation of child abuse and one homophobic slur.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel watches as Michael and two other agents storm into the room. He’s frozen, worse than useless, as they sweep through and clear the minuscule room. One agent covers the door, while the other stands at the entrance to the bathroom. Michael walks up to Dean, still handcuffed to the bed, and examines him with all the satisfaction of the cat who ate the canary. 

“Dean Winchester,” he says. A thin shred of revulsion slips down Castiel’s spine at the way Michael’s tongue curls around the syllables of Dean’s name. “You’ve given us the runaround for quite some time.” 

Dean glares hatred at Michael. As venomous as that look is, it’s nothing compared to how he looked at Castiel when he realized Castiel had betrayed him. 

Even though Castiel hadn’t knowingly done so. 

It’s not possible for Michael to be here this quickly. Until he called Michael this morning, Castiel didn't even know his exact address. When he fled last night, there was no real plan in his mind, other than to put as much distance between the demon and himself. There’s no way Michael could have predicted his erratic movements. 

Trepidation stirs in his gut, and he steps forward. “Maybe you could wait for a few hours? I have every reason to believe Sam Winchester will come looking for his brother. This could be an opportunity.” 

Pure hatred rattles through Dean’s incoherent snarling. Castiel cringes. He’d thought he and Dean might be reaching a place of compromise, perhaps more considering what Michael interrupted. He only meant to try and play for more time, but of course Dean would see it as a betrayal.

“You fucking touch my brother, and I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll rip your fucking lungs out,” Dean spits. “Swear to god, I’ll fucking--” 

Michael reaches out and backhands Dean neatly across the face. 

Castiel gapes. The casual cruelty of the gesture is nothing new; Michael is nothing if not deliberate in his petty abuses, but the unprofessionalism of the act is staggering. Never once has he known his brother to stray from the proverbial book, but now the sound of the slap rings around the room and a thin trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of Dean’s mouth. 

“Yes, I’m sure if we were to wait Sam would be along any moment,” Michael absently says, inspecting the small spatter of blood on his knuckles. “Fortunately for us, this is no longer your concern.” 

Something is wrong. Castiel might not know his brother well, but he knows enough to know that his behavior is aberrant. He walks forward, using his body to block Dean from Michael’s sight, and starts blabbering in a futile attempt to buy time. “Michael, stop and think about this. You haven’t considered how Dean could be an asset--” 

Castiel’s ramblings come to an abrupt stop when Michael withdraws his gun and points it directly at his forehead. Rather insultingly, he doesn’t even bother to look at Castiel. “Your concern in this matter is over, Castiel,” his brother says, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. “Leave now, while you still possess some of my goodwill.” 

Silent for once, Dean’s eyes dart from Castiel to Michael. In the silence of the room, the click of Castiel’s swallow echoes. All of his attention is focused on the impersonal barrel of the gun pointed at him. “Michael, stop and think for a moment.” Castiel tries to inch forward in order to force Michael’s eyes on to him. He keeps his hands raised, palms out, in an attempt to diffuse the situation. 

“Castiel, please understand when I tell you that I have not the slightest interest in you or your wellbeing. For once, you managed to serve your purpose, so you’re allowed to leave. Go before I change my mind.” 

Michael’s words are a knife twisting in his chest. Castiel’s cheeks color with humiliation. Tears burn behind his eyes, only furthering his shame. 

He’d known. He’d known since he was sixteen and Michael picked him up from school because he was suspended for five days for fighting. Sitting in the backseat of Michael’s sedan, with one eye swollen shut and the knees of his jeans ripped out, with the sting of the word  _ Faggot  _ mingling with Michael’s disgust, he’d known. When he was seventeen and wandered in at two in the morning, reeking of pot and alcohol and Michael slapped him across the face, he’d known. He’d known when he flunked out of college, too strung out to make it to final exams, and he’d known when his brother bodily threw him into a motel room with the instructions  _ Get clean or get out. Either way, we’re finished.  _ He’s known for years that Michael hated him. But it’s never been clearer than this moment, with his brother’s gun pointed unflinchingly at his forehead. 

Castiel’s eyes find Dean. Dean looks at him, face impassive. Why should he care? In Dean’s eyes, he’s nothing more than a liar. He promised Dean he would let him go, only to have the F.B.I. show up to take him away. Hell, he just threatened to turn Dean’s younger brother over as well. 

Dean looks away. He fixes his eyes on Michael and says, clearly and loudly,  _ “Christo.”  _

Michael spasms as an ugly snarl rips its way out of his throat. No human could make that sound. His head jerks and he turns towards Castiel. 

Michael’s eyes are black. 

Events happen in disjointed bursts from there. 

Castiel hears Dean shout, “Cas, the keys!” almost concurrently with the sound of Michael’s gun firing. He falls backward, hitting the wall, and cries out as his already hurt body takes another injury. It’s then that the pain  _ really  _ hits, white-hot and scorching down his left arm. He brings a shaking hand up to grab at the bullet wound in his shoulder, even though that just makes the pain flare worse. 

“Cas!  _ Cas!”  _

Gritting his teeth, Castiel looks up. The demons, because that’s what they are, all three of them, work quickly now that their flimsy cover has been exposed. Michael, or the thing piloting Michael, casually walks over to the headboard where Dean is cuffed. In one twist of his wrist, he breaks the wood, freeing Dean from the bed but not the cuffs. Michael tugs on the chain between Dean’s wrists, ignoring Dean’s struggling as well as his small grunts of pain. Michael yanks again, causing Dean to stumble and crash into the ground.

“Let’s go,” Michael says to the other two demons in the room. “If we’re lucky, we can track down the younger one on the way.” 

“Why not just kill this one now? It’d be easier than dragging the meatsuit around.” 

Michael draws himself up, and the demon who spoke cowers back. “Meg was very clear with her instructions, and I for one, am not interested in seeing what she’ll do to anyone who disobeys.” 

“Meg,” Dean spits. He struggles to his knees, still glaring defiance. “I might have known.” His lips split in a malicious smirk. “Hey, you want to know a secret? Your boss is a whore.” 

Michael backhands him again, but this time Dean is ready for him. He rolls easily with Michael’s blow, kicking out as his back hits the ground. It’s no more than a glancing blow, but it’s enough to make Michael stumble. 

“Cas, the keys! The knife!” 

Castiel stumbles back into action, ignoring the insistent throb of pain in his arm. The keys. He needs to get the keys to the cuffs to Dean. The knife. Dean said the knife could kill demons. It’s in his bag. 

He has to get the keys to Dean. 

It’s difficult to find the keys while he’s grappling in his waistband for his gun, but luck, however slender, is on his side. His fingers brush against the metal, even as he comes up with his gun. He knows it won’t do any good, but he has to give himself enough cover, just time enough to toss the keys to Dean. He holds his breath as they fly through the air and land next to Dean’s foot. He doesn’t release it until Dean has the keys in hand, awkwardly turning his wrist to fit them to the lock. 

“Cas, I’m gonna need your help here!” Dean shouts. 

Cas’ entire body throbs with pain, but he can’t ignore the urgency in Dean’s voice. Little though he can help, Dean needs him. With that thought in mind, he forces himself out from behind the safety of the bed. Dean has the keys; he’s freeing himself. What he needs now is the knife. 

Castiel barely makes it three steps before he’s slammed into the ground. He wheezes and tries to catch his breath, while he looks up at the impersonal face of one of Michael’s agents. It’s a woman of about thirty, dressed in blandly professional clothing. There are thin lines bracketing her eyes, like she laughs a lot. Right now, her eyes are inky black, and her lips are drawn back in a snarl. 

Castiel tries to remember Dean’s words. Whatever she might have been before, she’s a demon. There can be no room in his heart for pity or doubt. 

“What about the spare?” Her hand twists the fabric of his shirt as she hauls him to his feet. “Meg have any instructions about him?” 

“He’s worthless,” Michael says. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see him advancing on Dean. “Kill him.” 

An eerie grin splits her face wide. “Hear that?” she whispers. “Means you’re all mine, Blue Eyes.” 

Castiel kicks out instinctively. The demon doesn’t fall down shrieking in pain, but she at least loosens her grip on his shirt. It’s more from surprise than anything else, but Castiel will take whatever he gets. He jerks backward, freeing himself, and turns to his bag. 

The knife is gone. 

Fear and resignation attack at the same time. The knife was their only hope. Without it, he and Dean are--

He looks over his shoulder when the strangled cry tears through the room. Dean stands tall, his hands freed from the cuffs. The blade of the knife is buried in the demon’s chest. 

“Sorry Cas,” Dean calls, somehow still able to quip, “but you were taking too long.” 

He wrenches the knife out of the demon’s chest and the body falls to the ground with an empty, wet noise. With only one quick glance sideways, Dean tosses the knife across the room. 

It’s not what Castiel would do. Castiel would hold onto the weapon himself, trusting in his own expertise to keep himself safe. It’s not a move that should work. He and Dean aren’t friends; they’re only allies for a fleeting moment. They haven’t established any patterns or rhythms between the two of them. Other than one fight in a dingy bathroom, he doesn’t know Dean’s moves or preferences. Dean doesn’t know how he operates. 

Castiel’s hand closes around the hilt of the knife. He’s already pivoting, arm swinging in a graceful arc, as he finds his target in the woman’s chest. The knife sinks in easily, with only the most token resistance. 

Electricity flashes behind the woman’s eyes, the flash of a skeleton underneath the skin. She screams hellfire and damnation, then her body falls to the ground in a lifeless heap. Castiel doesn’t think about the blood coating his hands or the ring on the fourth finger on her left hand. 

“Cas!” 

Dean’s shout cuts off abruptly. With a thrill of horror, Castiel turns to see one of Michael’s squeezing mercilessly around Dean’s throat. His other hand points his gun squarely at Castiel. 

“Not another step, little brother. I’m in a foul mood, so I’m liable to kneecap you before I kill you.” 

“You’re not my brother,” Castiel grits. He doesn’t look at the red crowding over Dean’s cheeks or listen to his labored wheezes. “You’re just the thing wearing him.” 

He doubts Dean’s plan was to debate metaphysics with a demon, but unfortunately it’s what he’s down to. With one hand around Dean’s throat and the other pointing a gun at him, Michael has every version of an upper hand it’s possible to have. Castiel’s only hope of gaining the advantage lies in talking to Michael, a difficult task even when he’s not possessed by a demon intent upon death and destruction. 

“Maybe, but I’m not saying anything he hasn’t thought before,” Michael says smoothly. “You should have heard him when I asked you to find Dean Winchester. He had a lot of adjectives to describe you--worthless, pointless, useless...a lot of lesses.” 

Dean gasps. The gun never wavers. 

Obviously, demons can neither be reasoned with nor goaded. Negotiation is not how they’re going to win this battle. 

Castiel casts his mind back to the previous night and what Sam and Dean had said. His tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar syllables, but he manages an approximation.  _ “ _ _ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--”  _

That’s as far as Castiel gets before he flies backward. A sharp cry tears from his throat as he hits the wall with bone-jarring force. Agony erupts from his gunshot wound, but it’s not limited to that area. It spreads through his body like wildfire. He gasps for breath, but his lungs are empty. 

Dazed, he looks up to see Michael advancing on him. Pitch-black eyes look out at him through a pitiless mask of his brother’s face. His expression promises no hope of survival, only death. 

Behind him, Dean is pinned to the wall, struggling against an invisible force. “Cas!” he shouts. Through a red haze of pain, Castiel notices real concern in Dean’s voice. It’s more than he could have hoped for, to have someone to mourn his passing. 

“Are you watching, Winchester? Pay attention, because this is what we’re going to do to you and your brother!” 

Michael drags him to the middle of the room, his thumb cruelly pressing into the still bleeding wound on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel screams, all thoughts lost in the red wash of pain. Everything vanishes, even his fear and Dean’s shouts. 

A blow to his face brings him back, along with Dean’s frenzied shouts. “Leave him alone, you son of a bitch, it’s me that you want. He’s nothing, he’s no one--”

Castiel gasps as knuckles split his lip. He wants to flee into the refuge of oblivion, but every hit keeps him firmly grounded in the world. His body goes limp, but that doesn’t stop Michael. His injuries from the night before, hardly healed, flare anew as blows rain down upon his body. Blood flows from a cut in his hairline, from his nose, from his mouth, from the wound in his shoulder, until he’s afraid he has none left to give. 

Through everything, Dean shouts at him, exhorts him to get up, to fight back. The words slip in and out of Castiel’s head like flowing water, gone before he could ever grab hold. His limp arm falls behind him. 

His fingers brush the hilt of the knife. 

More from reflex than conscious action, his fingers wrap around the knife.

“Michael?” he chokes out. Bloody spittle flies from his lips. 

“Give up,” the thing wearing Michael sneers. Amidst the twisted hatred, Castiel has trouble distinguishing any of his brother’s characteristics. “Your brother is dead.” 

“All right,” Castiel agrees. Fog wraps around his brain, turning everything fuzzy, to the point where it’s almost as if he’s standing outside his body. It’s certainly not his hand which lifts up the knife. It’s not his hand plunging the knife into Michael’s chest. 

It is his body which falls back to the ground, a second after Michael’s. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


The second Dean’s feet hit the ground, he knows. 

Demons don’t give up control of a victim unless they will it or unless they’re dead. And since the bastard piloting Cas’ brother clearly had no intention of releasing him until he’d beaten Cas to death…

Thousands of thoughts crowd at his brain, but Dean pushes them all away. A lifetime of crises allows him to take care of the most urgent business first. He kneels beside Cas, patting his cheek. 

Cas’ eyes flutter open. They’re already narrowed in irritation, which Dean will take as a good sign. “How you feeling?” he asks. 

For a second, Cas’ eyes reflect only faint curiosity at the question. Dean sees the moment when knowledge strikes. Horror flashes in those blue depths and Cas tries to wriggle out from underneath the hand at the back of his neck. “No, no, no, no”, he starts chanting, the thoughtless litany spilling from his mouth. 

“Cas!” The snap in his voice is enough to stop Cas from struggling. Reality settles on his shoulders, and Cas slumps forward with a low moan. 

“Where are your keys?” Cas stares blankly at him until Dean repeats the question. With slow, stilted movements, Castiel digs the keys to his truck out of his pocket and places them in Dean’s hands. His eyes are glazed. It’s obvious that shock is setting in. Dean wishes there was enough time to deal with this, as it should be dealt with, time enough to let Cas process and grieve, but time is one of the many commodities of which he’s never had enough. 

Inwardly wincing, he slaps at Cas’ cheek. The sting rouses Cas enough to look at him. “Come on, I need you here, buddy. Get your shit together.” He looks at Cas’ hands and swallows. “You probably want to wash up.” 

It was a mistake to draw Cas’ attention to the blood covering his hands. He can see the moment Cas checks out. Silently cursing, he pulls Cas to his feet and marches him over to the bathroom sink. He stands behind Cas and turns the water on as hot as it will go before guiding Cas’ hands under the spigot. 

Pink tinged water flows down the drain, along with the remnants of soap bubbles. Dean scrubs at Cas’ hands, removing the blood from the whorls of lines of his palms. In the quiet of the room, with no other sound but the running of water, the jagged sound of Cas’ breathing is almost deafening. 

When steam starts billowing around the sink, Dean pulls away. Castiel’s hands fall limply against his thigh. After a moment, Cas wipes his palms on his thighs. 

“Get your things. Make sure you don’t leave anything behind.” 

“Believe it or not, this isn’t the first motel room I’ve had to leave under suspicious circumstances,” Cas says, but he follows Dean’s directions easily enough. Dean waits until Cas’ back is turned before he goes to the agents. He takes their badges; he’ll toss them once he’s across at least another four state lines. He removes the SIM cards from their phones and turns them off. Probably, they had some kind of device to enable them to be tracked to this motel, but he can at least stop the phones from putting out an active signal. 

“Are you ready?” Cas asks, voice wooden. His eyes flick to the badges in Dean’s hands. Busted. 

Dean glances around the motel room. It’s a fucking mess, fingerprints and blood everywhere, but there’s no time to clean how he would like. Demon fights are loud and messy; he’d be surprised if several people haven’t already called the cops. 

“Keys?” Cas asks, holding out his hands. 

“No offense, but like hell I’m letting you drive right now.” 

He expects an argument. When he doesn’t get one, it just reinforces his decision. Cas follows him silently to the truck, throwing his duffel into the backseat. He sits silently in the passenger’s seat as Dean turns the key in the ignition. The truck comes to life with a sputtering cough which makes Dean nostalgic for the Impala. 

Shit, Sam. 

“Cas, give me your phone.” Cas blinks at him, but he fishes in his pocket and hands his phone over to Dean. The second his thumb hits the screen, Dean’s heart sinks. The glass under his thumb is cracked and shattered beyond use. “Goddammit,” he curses softly. 

No chance of warning Sam. He can only pray that Sam is prepared if he happens to step into the shitshow of that room. 

“Who did you tell about this job?” It might be cruel to interrogate Cas, but Dean needs to know exactly how much shit he and Sam are going to be in. 

Cas shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “No one. Michael called me and told me what he wanted; I did it.” Cas’ arms wrap around his stomach as he stares out the window. “I told him that after this job I never wanted anything to do with him.” His bitter huff of laughter fogs up the window. “I guess I got my wish, huh?” 

“It wasn’t your brother,” Dean says, almost automatically. “Even when you talked to him at the beginning, it wasn’t him. There’s no knowing how long he was possessed.” 

The words don’t comfort Castiel. If anything, he hunches further in on himself. “I couldn’t tell. Everything he said, everything he did… I couldn’t tell. My own brother, and I couldn’t tell what was the demon and what was him.” 

The rest of the drive passes in silence. 

  
  


\---

In a reversal of their roles last night, this time Cas stays in the car while Dean talks to the clerk. He thanks whatever meager God for the clerk’s disinterest as well as the poor lighting in the office as he asks for a room. When he shoves some paperwork across the counter, Dean quickly fills out a fake name, then slides a few bills back with the clipboard. 

“Room 15, no smoking, check-out is at 11,” the clerk recites, all with the same bored tone which suggests that Dean could drop dead right in front of him and he wouldn’t care. Far from being resentful, Dean is grateful. These are the “saw nothing, heard nothing” clerks which keep him and Sam out of trouble. 

Cas silently follows him to the room. Once Dean opens the door, Cas pushes past him, tossing his duffel on the bed closest to the door. Then he sits at the edge of the bed, his head hanging low. There’s still a smear of blood across his thumb. 

Dean locks the door. He’d feel better if he had a salt line across that and the window, but he’ll have to make do. He’s fairly certain they weren’t followed. He pulls the curtains, hiding them from view, before he turns back to Cas. 

“We need to look at your shoulder.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” Cas reaches for the hem of his shirt, only to hiss in pain when it becomes clear he can’t move in that particular way.

“Here.” Dean grabs for one of his knives. He holds the blade before Cas’ face before lowering it to the hem of his shirt. “You trust me?” 

Cas nods once. Dean makes short work of his shirt, the blade of his knife easily parting the fabric of Cas’ shirt. He twists the edge away from Cas’ chin with a deft turn of his wrist. With the two halves of his shirt hanging off of his chest, it’s easier for Dean to work Cas’ arms out of it. 

The wound is ugly, but thankfully not serious. “Through and through,” Dean informs Cas once he examines it. “Looks like it missed everything major. It’ll hurt like a bitch, but if you get it clean, it should be fine.” 

Cas grunts before he offers, “I’ve got a med kit at the bottom of my bag. It should have supplies there.” Dean searches and finds the small box. He opens it and takes out the antiseptic, gauze, and tape. 

“You ok?” After he asks the question, he winces. Of course Cas isn’t ok. It’s an asinine thing to ask. Thankfully, Cas doesn’t answer. 

“This isn’t gonna be fun,” Dean warns, hefting the bottle of antiseptic. “You want me to run to the liquor store, get you something to dull it?” 

“It’ll be fine,” Cas says dully. “Just get it over with.” 

Dean waits for him to change his mind, but Cas says nothing. He lets out a low moan of pain when the antiseptic sinks into the edges of his wound, but he doesn’t complain. Dean dabs at the edges with a washcloth, cleaning away any excess blood and debris. 

“If I bandage this, you should be alright. Probably still going to hurt like a bitch though.” 

“Just get it over with,” Cas tells him tonelessly. 

Dean makes his motions as quick and efficient as he can, but there are still huffed hisses from Cas as his fingers catch on the edge of his wound. Dean starts murmuring apologies and reassurances, the same way he would if it were Sam, just meaningless phrases meant to carry through the pain and out to the other side. 

He does stroke over the nape of Cas’ neck when he’s finished, which is something he’s never done for Sam. “Done,” he says, voice cracking. He can’t draw his eyes away from how his fingers look against Cas’ skin until he forcibly rips his hand off of Cas. 

“I think...I think I’m going to go wash,” Cas finally says, his voice dull and toneless. He moves his shoulder a little, wincing as he discovers the acceptable range of motion. “This should hold up.”

“Yeah. All right.” Dean’s mouth goes suddenly dry as his useless brain provides him with unwanted images of Cas, standing naked underneath the shower’s spray. He’s gotten to know the structure of Cas’ stomach and shoulders quite well in the past hour, well enough to guess at the muscles hidden underneath his jeans. 

And he’s the worst kind of pervert for thinking of Cas like that when he’s just finished bandaging Cas up after Cas killed his brother. Worse even, because even knowing that he’s the absolute scum of the earth, he still can’t stop himself from looking at Cas as he makes his painstaking way to the bathroom. 

The pipes rattle as the shower kicks on and Dean wastes no time in finding the room phone. He’d prefer a burner, but a landline will have to suffice. He calls the number of Sam’s spare spare phone, knowing it’s the one most easily dumped. Unsurprisingly, Sam lets the call go to voicemail. The beep is unceremonious, without even a canned greeting to introduce it, and Dean stammers the first part of his message out in surprise. 

“Hey buddy, I don’t know if you’ll get this until the morning or not, but I wanted to let you know that I made it into Des Moines in one piece. Not a lot of action here, I’ll probably head out in the morning. Meet you for drinks at the usual place? Ok, talk to you later.” 

Dean hangs up the phone, breathing easier through the sputter of the shower. Des Moines to let Sam know everything is fine and he’s not hurt. Meeting up at the usual place, meaning Bobby’s. Mentioning heading out in the morning to let Sam know not to try and find him. 

With that taken care of, Dean eases himself into the uncomfortable desk chair, wincing as his body groans and complains at every movement. He’s not as young as he used to be; almost twenty-four hours of being handcuffed have really taken it out of him, not to mention the strain of the demon fight. 

He hadn’t expected Meg to be so singular in her quest. While they followed the schoolyard rule of respecting the strongest kid on the playground, most demons were, at heart, opportunistic. The second their leaders fell, they tended to scatter. They understood revenge, but for petty slights. This crusade of Meg’s though...it was personal and consuming. It was almost like something a Winchester would put together. 

And now Cas, the poor stupid bastard, has managed to get himself embroiled in the thick of it. 

It hits him then, the enormity of the trust Cas just placed in him. For the first time since they met, Cas has left him alone, unobserved and unfettered. Right now, he could take Cas’ wallet, his car keys, and whatever else he holds dear and disappear into the night. It’s a little awe inspiring that Cas trusts him to that extent. Or, more depressingly and therefore closer to the truth, Cas just doesn’t care anymore. 

Cas killed his brother tonight. Sure, said brother was possessed by a demon and currently trying to kill him, but. Killing a vessel is bad enough, but if it’s your own family? Dean allows the thought to whisper through his head, of how bad it would have to get before he would consider putting a knife in Sam’s chest. Immediately, his thoughts reel away from that possibility. There’s nothing,  _ nothing  _ that would ever make him do that. 

The shower stops and steam billows out as the door opens. A few moments later, Cas exits with only a towel wrapped around his hips. His skin is pink and flushed and his hair hangs in wet tendrils. Dean swallows and tries to yank his eyes away, but he can’t. 

Cas doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil as he sits heavily down on the edge of the bed. The spread of his legs will haunt Dean’s dreams for weeks to come, but Dean pushes that thought aside. He can think about the additions to the spank bank later; for now, as strange as it seems, his task needs to be taking care of Cas. 

“Some of the tape came loose. I can fix it for you if you want,” Dean offers, forcing words through his suddenly dry mouth. 

Cas nods after a short pause and Dean carefully kneels on the bed behind him. At the first touch of his fingers, Cas flinches, but he relaxes as Dean lays his hand flat against Cas’ back. 

“You probably want to watch your back for a while.” Dean doesn’t dare try to catch a glimpse of Cas’ face as he carefully rewraps gauze around his shoulder. “I don’t know how much Meg knows, but if she knows that you had contact with us, then you’ll want to be careful.” 

Cas releases his breath in a slow, resigned sigh, but says nothing. To fill the silence, Dean continues. “Salt lines will keep demons out of rooms, but they can be blown away or destroyed. Demons have a lot of tricks. A devil’s trap is more reliable. Once you get a demon inside a devil’s trap they can’t leave or use their powers. I’ll draw one for you so you know how to make it. You might want to get yourself an anti-possession charm too, just to be on the safe side. It’ll keep you from being…” 

“From being possessed?” Cas finally asks. “From having my will stripped away?” 

Dean rests his hand on Cas’ shoulder. “For what it’s worth--”

“If you tell me you’re sorry, I swear to god, I’ll stab you.” His flat voice leaves no doubt as to his sincerity. 

Dean snaps his jaw shut. “What will you do?” he asks, once he thinks that the threat of stabbing has passed. 

Castiel tries to shrug then thinks better of it. “Bleed as much money from my accounts as possible? Lay low from now until judgement day? I don’t know if Michael told anyone about the job, but if he did, then it’s not going to take them long to connect the dots. They might come looking for me anyway; it’s not a secret that Michael and I didn’t get along. Either way, I suspect that soon the F.B.I. will be asking me a number of questions which I don’t feel comfortable answering. My absence will be prudent.” 

_ I’m sorry  _ rests on Dean’s tongue, but he never says it. Instead, he forces himself to be logical. “If it helps, then I don’t think he would have told many people. Demons aren’t usually big on the whole sharing plans thing.” 

“Dean.” Cas twists to face him. Dean absolutely does not notice how the knot in the towel slips, baring what seems like miles of Cas’ hip, flank, and thigh. “I really don’t want to talk about demons right now.” 

His eyes drop to Dean’s lips before he drags them back up to Dean’s eyes. “Cas,” Dean tries, even as he finds himself leaning forward. His hand finds its way to Cas’ thigh, fingers curling around the edge of the towel to pull it further up Cas’ leg, revealing thick muscle under a light dusting of dark hair. “Cas, this isn’t a good--”

“Shut up,” Cas breathes, as he reaches out with his unhurt arm. His fingers curl around the edge of Dean’s jaw, pulling him closer, and Dean is tired of denying himself. 

His lips meet Cas’. The kiss is almost sweet, which isn’t what he would have expected, had he harbored any expectations. That’s until Cas releases a soft noise into Dean’s mouth as his tongue traces the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean opens in silent obedience, which is when Cas turns aggressive, his teeth scoring at the tender flesh of Dean’s lower lip. 

Dean doesn’t chart the exact moment when Cas shifts from sitting at the edge of the bed to turning and straddling him. It’s enough to know that it happens. The towel falls away, leaving him bare. Dean’s hands seek out warm skin, sweeping in long lines from Cas’ shoulders down to the curve of his ass. 

Cas bites harshly at Dean’s lower lip before he pulls away. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he pants, pulling at the hem of Dean’s shirt for punctuation. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows this is a bad idea. Cas is in no fit state to consent, his own feelings regarding Cas are still in a messy turmoil, and he’s still not convinced that they’re not being hunted by Meg’s minions. This is a luxury he can’t afford. 

Dean takes it anyway, pushing Cas back so that he can rip his shirt off. Meanwhile, Cas fumbles at his belt, his knuckles accidentally-on-purpose rubbing against the bulge he finds pressing against the zipper. Dean groans as his hips buck into the pressure of Cas’ hands. 

Cas’ chuckle galvanizes him into action. Mindful of Cas’ injuries, he still flips their positions, so that Cas lands on his back with a soft huff. Immediately, Cas tries to struggle back up, but Dean stops him with a firm hand planted in the middle of his chest. 

“You had your fun,” he says, slinging his leg over Cas’ hips to stop him wriggling away. “Now it’s my turn.” He raises a sardonic brow. “Unless you want me to get the cuffs?” 

Cas’ eyes darken at the suggestion, but he goes deliberately limp against the mattress. Dean grins at the sight as he slides out of his jeans and boxers, leaving them both bare. He lowers himself on top of Castiel and their twinned groans reach towards the ceiling. 

Dean starts a slow thrust against Cas’ hip, biting his lip as his cock drags over Cas’ shower-slick skin. One of Cas’ legs hooks around his hips, keeping him pinned, while Cas drags his mouth back to his with one hand fisted in his short hair. Their teeth clack in a harsh kiss that ends with both of them panting in each other’s mouth. “Fuck,” Dean breathes, his free hand clamping at Cas’ hip. 

A tiny growl rumbles in the back of Cas’ throat. The threat and need in the sound is enough to send shivers down Dean’s spine. He ignores the pressure on his scalp as he works his way down Cas’ throat to his chest, leaving harsh, biting kisses in his wake. 

This isn’t how he imagined it, either at the pool table or earlier tonight, but it’s what he needs. Almost more importantly, it’s what  _ Cas  _ needs, something to take him out of his head and away from the world, at least for a little bit. It doesn’t make this a good idea, but it makes it so Dean can at least justify his actions. 

He wants to spend hours mapping out Cas’ body, tracing the lines of his scars and chasing the quivers of his muscles, but they don’t have that kind of time. He works his way down Cas’ torso, running his teeth over the stiff peaks of his nipples, biting kisses along the ladder of his ribs and the spurs of his hips. He stops there, with his mouth close to the head of Cas’ straining cock, and appreciates the small whines suffocated in Cas’ throat and shifts of Cas’ hips as he attempts to get Dean’s mouth where he wants it. 

“Patience,” Dean says, unrepentant as he pins Cas’ hips to the mattress. 

“Fuck you,” Cas pants. He clenches his eyes shut as he reaches up and twists one hand in his dark hair. 

Dean licks at the head of Cas’ cock, nothing more than a teasing flick over his tongue over the leaking slit. “Not very nice.” He licks again, tracing the line of the thick vein on the underside. “Hey, Cas. Look at me.” 

Glazed blue eyes slit open to gaze down at him. As a reward, Dean tilts his head and swallows him down. He anticipates the buck of Cas’ hips and avoids choking, even as he sucks. He groans as Cas’ fingers card through his hair, urging him with small pushes to increase his pace and pressure. Finding no reason to argue, Dean bends to his task with goodwill, bobbing his head up and down Cas’ length, his fist covering what his mouth can’t. 

His pride demands that he take Cas apart, bit by bit, until he’s panting and begging. He has a suspicion those baby blues would look gorgeous if they were shining with tears of frustration, and he wants to bring that vision into reality. He wants to flip Cas over and push into him, press his face into the mattress, and take his time until Cas is moaning and writhing on the end of his cock. He wants to learn each of Cas’ tells so he can play him like a delicate instrument, until he learns exactly how to make Cas sing for him. 

There’s no room for leisure in Dean’s life, no place for permanence. He chases that thought away by working at Cas until his back bows and his thighs clench around his shoulders, until Cas cries out in hoarse pleasure. Cas’ legs tremble around him as he pants, “Dean, Dean, I’m gonna come, gonna--”

Dean pulls off just in time to watch Cas come over his fist. He strokes Cas through his orgasm, watching Cas’ teeth ruthlessly dig into his lower lip and his forehead creasing in pleasure close to pain. He only pulls away once Cas starts to whimper, leaving him limp and boneless. 

With his chest heaving and golden skin shining with sweat and come, Cas is a fucked out wet dream. The sight of him alone would be enough to help push him over the edge but Dean wants more. He swirls his fingers in the mess on Cas’ stomach, then brings them up to Cas’ lips, hooking behind his teeth. At the taste of himself on Dean’s fingers, Cas’ eyes snap open. A mixture of disbelief, shock, indignation, and hunger shines forth. Dean grins as he pushes down on Cas’ tongue, steadily fucking his mouth with his fingers. 

In the end, Cas has the last laugh. Far from spitting defiance or hate, Cas closes his eyes and sucks Dean’s fingers down to the root. His tongue flicks over his knuckles and between his fingers, lapping at the webbing, and his teeth scrape over his skin in a tease and threat. Between the sensations and the weight of that heavy, blue gaze, Dean comes undone. 

His hand not currently occupied with Cas’ mouth flies to his neglected cock. At the first touch of his hand, he sighs in relief. The strokes are a little too dry and rough to be perfect, but each sensation drags pleasure across his nerves. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean pants, undone by the sight of his fingers disappearing into Cas’ mouth. 

Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and tugs. Dean’s fingers slip from his mouth, leaving slick trails across Cas’ lips and chin. “Come, Dean,” Cas says, his voice rough and wrecked. 

Much to his chagrin, Dean does, his hips bucking forward into his fist as he comes over his knuckles and Cas’ stomach. He moans helplessly as his orgasm roars through his body, spurred on by Cas’ tongue flicking against the sensitive pads of his fingers. 

Dean’s head hangs low as he pants the last of his pleasure into Cas’ collarbone. Even though he’s not looking at Cas’ face, he can still sense his smug expression. 

“You’re very good at following directions,” Cas notes finally, when Dean’s breathing settles into normal rhythms. 

“Shut up,” is Dean’s oh so clever retort. 

Cas allows him a few more seconds of rest before he grabs a shirt to clean them off. Dean notes with a twist of ill-humor that it’s  _ his  _ shirt Cas uses, but he’s not surprised. It’s just the kind of petty at which Cas excels. 

They lay on opposite sides of the bed, not talking but also not retreating. What just happened between them feels almost too big to broach. If it were anyone else, this is when Dean would start gathering his clothes and heading for the exit, leaving behind a shitty excuse and a fake number. That’s what he  _ should _ be doing. 

Instead he lays there, sweat and come cooling and tries to parse out patterns in the water-stained ceiling. A surprisingly gentle fingertip traces along the lines of his clavicle, recreating the design tattooed there. 

“Anti-possession tattoo,” Dean finally says, in response to the unasked question. “Charms will work too, but they have a tendency to get lost or destroyed. This was easier.” 

Castiel hums. The sound is soft and distracted. When Dean looks over at him, he sees that Cas’ eyes are already slipping closed. Small wonder. Poor guy’s been bashed and thrown around and shot. He could probably use the sleep. 

Dean doesn’t sleep, even as Cas’ breathing deepens and his body relaxes. A lump builds in his throat the longer he looks at Cas, turning sour in his mouth and churning in his gut. In sleep, the harsh lines float away from his forehead and mouth, making him look years younger. His hand rests on the pillow, fingers curled disarmingly towards his cheek. He whistles a little, when he sleeps, just a little bit on the inhale. 

Leaving the bed is harder than Dean anticipated. 

He moves on feet made quiet by experience, sliding back into his clothes with hardly a whisper to mark his passing. He looks over his shoulder as he hunches over the desk; Cas sleeps on. A tiny frown mars his features but he never stirs, not even as Dean scratches out a note. 

The note is short, though longer than it probably should be. Dean draws out a Devil’s trap, instructing that they should be drawn at doorways and windows. He sketches out an anti-possession symbol. After a long moment’s deliberation, he adds Tara’s name, with instructions to drop his name so that he can get an actual anti-possession charm. Tara is ornery, but Cas is smart enough to know how to deal with her. 

Dean bites his lip as he looks over his shoulder once last time. Cas sleeps on, unaware of any ill-doings outside his dreams. He scrawls a final message at the bottom of the notepad, ignoring the dull ache in the pit of his belly. 

He doesn’t waste a lot of time wishing things were different. It doesn’t do any good and it only leaves him vulnerable to the dozens of monsters who would love to take advantage of any hint of emotional vulnerability. Wishes never helped anyone. 

But he spares a second to wish that his life were even the slightest bit different as he slips out of the hotel room, leaving Cas behind him. 

\---

_ I’m sorry. I wish it could be different but this is for the best. Take care of yourself.  _

_ Dean _

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*


	6. reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean falls onto the hotel bed, too exhausted to do anything more other than roll to the center of the mattress. His boots are scuffing the bedspread, but since the linens are of dubious cleanliness, he doesn’t feel that guilty. 
> 
> Dean’s noticed before that hunts come in bursts and waves, almost like tourist seasons at the beach, but with hauntings and massacres instead of quaint boardwalks and surfing competitions. If that’s the case, then he and Sam are right in the middle of their busy season. It seems like they barely finish one job before another two pop up to take its place. Ghosts, werewolves, vampires… All these fuckers are crawling out of the woodwork at a time when Dean just wants to rest.

~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean falls onto the hotel bed, too exhausted to do anything more other than roll to the center of the mattress. His boots are scuffing the bedspread, but since the linens are of dubious cleanliness, he doesn’t feel that guilty. 

Dean’s noticed before that hunts come in bursts and waves, almost like tourist seasons at the beach, but with hauntings and massacres instead of quaint boardwalks and surfing competitions. If that’s the case, then he and Sam are right in the middle of their busy season. It seems like they barely finish one job before another two pop up to take its place. Ghosts, werewolves, vampires… All these fuckers are crawling out of the woodwork at a time when Dean just wants to  _ rest.  _

“Dean, did you remember to change the plates? Dean!” 

Dean presses his face into the mattress to muffle his groan. In the six months since  _ The Incident,  _ as he’s sure Sam calls it in his mind, complete with capital letters, Sam’s already prodigious paranoia has doubled. At his insistence, Dean changes the license plates of the Impala every other day, and they’ve downsized to a cash only operation. Sam doesn’t trust any of their credit card aliases anymore, which is probably smart of him, but it’s not Sam doing the majority of the hustling. Dean never thought he would tire of tricking drunk assholes out of their money, but these days, he has an almost visceral reaction to picking up a pool cue. 

“I changed the fucking plates,” Dean says into his pillow. “Can you give me two hours of sleep? I almost let that werewolf tear me apart just so I could get some damn rest.” 

“Don’t joke about that,” Sam says sharply, but then subsides. 

In his more lucid, magnanimous moments, Dean will admit to the method in Sam’s madness. There are forces coming at them from all sides, both from demons and the law. Though Dean’s fairly certain Cas isn’t on their trail, he doesn’t know about any other bounty hunters or officers. He shudders to think of seeing Henrickson’s smug face knocking on their door. 

He knows Meg is still on their trail, the same way he knows the sky is blue and gravity is real. He knows it’s only a matter of time before she finds them. 

In his darkest moments, Dean considers going outside and shouting his identity to the sky. Let her come. He’s tired of running scared, tired of living from day to day without a rest in between jobs. He just wants all of this to be  _ over.  _

He doesn’t, of course, but the temptation is there. It’s worse on nights like this, when a bitch of a hunt is followed immediately afterward by a bitch of a drive. Sam, the huge freak, doesn’t seem to feel it, but Dean’s joints feel each and every minute.

In a complete and total failure to read the room, Sam starts yammering about their next job. “So the Carrock house is supposed to be the most haunted house in the county. From what I can tell there are five different bodies in the house, so potentially five spirits. Still, it should be a pretty simple salt and burn. We’ll have to wait until night before we can break in--” 

“Can we not talk about work for five minutes?” Though the thought of moving makes him want to cry, he could do it if it meant getting to punch Sam in the face. 

Thankfully, Sam gets the message and shuts his big Sam mouth. Dean tries to relax into the stiff mattress. He’s tired enough that he’ll fall asleep anyway, but it would be nice to be comfortable. He winces as he turns over onto his side. No such luck; looks like it’s another night spent on a mattress that might as well be made of plywood and stones. 

He closes his eyes and tries to find some measure of peace. He knows his mood has been short. He knows he’s quicker to snap. He knows he can only use the excuse of exhaustion for so long before Sam finally calls bullshit. 

It’s not just the constant hunts or the incessant worries, or even the lack of money. Dean keeps the list of people he has to worry about thankfully short, and for good reasons. He worries about Sam, who usually is no more than ten paces away from him, and he worries about Bobby, who is no more than a phone call away. To add another person to his list is madness, especially when said person is indirectly responsible for this whole mess. 

He spent one shameful afternoon, after telling Sam he was researching potential cases, looking for Cas. He searched through every database he could hack into, breathing a sigh of relief every time he made it through without coming across Cas. After he searched through the morgues and found nothing, he breathed an even larger sigh of relief. Wherever Cas was, it looked as though he’d truly gone to ground. It was the best move for Cas, but Dean couldn’t help but selfishly wish for some kind of news. 

And because he’d never learned to quit while he was ahead, he went further. It took a few long hours and a little help from Ash before he finally found any mention of Castiel Novak. Someone (Dean’s suspicions immediately flew to Castiel’s F.B.I. brother) went to a good deal of trouble to make him disappear from the system. Arrests passed with no time served and hospital visits ended in a swift discharge. 

The mugshot caught his attention. Cas peered out at him, through narrowed eyes and messy hair, lips pursed in a pout. His always impressive cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass. It was almost impossible to see the man he would become in the feral youth, but on second look, Dean saw vestiges of his adult self in the tilt of his head, in the clench of his jaw, even in the light of his eyes. 

He spent long minutes, too many of them, staring at the picture. There was no reason for him to feel like this. Other than his right hook and a pretty spectacular ass, Cas wasn’t anything special. He was just a guy. Worse, a guy whose actions had almost catastrophic consequences. 

Just a guy who changed his mind when Dean asked him to, who fought when the smartest thing to do would have been to flee. 

Dean closed out the window and erased the browser history, twice, just be sure. When Sam returned and asked what new cases he’d found, Dean made up some bullshit excuse about the internet being out for most of the afternoon. Judging from the upwards tick of Sam’s eyebrow, his excuse fell flatter than a pancake, but Dean didn’t really care. Sam, showing good sense for once in his life, never asked, and Dean wasn’t about to volunteer information. 

Weeks later, Dean tosses and turns on a mattress designated as a torture device by the Geneva Convention, and waits for the day when everything is  _ fine _ once more. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Dean’s going to kill Sam. After (if) they get out of this mess, he’s going to kill Sam. 

_ Pretty simple salt and burn  _ his ass. So far to Dean’s count, there are at least eight ghosts in this house, all of them pissed off. They’ve yet to make it past the first floor and they’re already halfway through their stores of salt. Dean regrets his trigger happy tendencies, as he’s running much lighter on ammo than is comfortable. 

“I’m going to kick your ass,” Dean shouts to Sam. He swings an ever handy fireplace poker through one of the ghosts and watches in satisfaction as it disappears. It’ll be back, but it at least gives him a moment to breathe.

“We need to get to the basement,” Sam pants. There’s a thin cut on his forehead but otherwise he looks fine. 

“Really?” Dean knows he’s being a little snarky, but his guilt is diminished by the fact that he’s going to get the shit beaten out of him by someone who looks like she could play Miss Havisham at a low-budget Dickens revival. “Man, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You keep them off my back,” Sam says, before he sprints towards the door to the basement. Dean gapes after him a moment--Sam is supposed to be the smart one, and this is the plan he comes up with?--before he tries to catch up. 

Sam disappears down the stairs to the basement and Dean watches in a mixture of horror and anger as the door slams shut behind him. He’s been doing this job too long to hope, but he tries nonetheless to open the door. Unsurprisingly, the door refuses to open, no matter how hard Dean tugs at it. 

“Oh, fuck you,” he mutters, just in time to be yanked off his feet. He grunts as he hits the ground, hand already grabbing for his poker. He swings wildly and manages to slice through the body of a ghost. The ghost dissipates in a whiff of smoke, but Dean knows she’ll be back. 

“Come on, you bastards!” he shouts, hefting up the poker. If their only chance of success is for Sam to find the bodies, then he has to function as his least favorite thing in the world, which is bait. If he can keep the ghosts occupied for long enough, Sam has a shot to salt and burn the bodies. 

(It occurs to Dean that they never actually confirmed that the bodies were in the basement. It’s just one of the things he takes for granted in this job. Doors which slam shut of their own volition are undoubtedly stuck that way and bodies are buried in the basement.)

Dean regrets his shouts as smoke starts to seep in through the floorboards, walls, and ceilings. He watches as the smoke forms into seperate shapes, first one, then two, then more than he can count. 

Definitely more than eight ghosts in the house. 

“Shit,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the poker. The ghosts regard him silently for a moment. Their eyes are burning pits in empty skulls. “How you doin’ fellas?” he asks. 

The sound of his voice sparks rage in the ghosts. A wild howling picks up through the house. It drowns out his heartbeat, his own breath. Dean braces himself as best he can and then the ghosts attack. 

They’re oddly coordinated for a series of disembodied spirits, not that Dean is in a position to appreciate their teamwork. He flails wildly about him, striking indiscriminately with the poker. At each touch of iron the ghosts evaporate, but they have the advantage of numbers as well as stamina. They’re not going to get tired. Dean, meanwhile, is slowing down. 

One of the ghosts finally breaks through his faltering defense. Dean shouts out as fingers dig into his shoulder like five icy knives. The pain of it drives him to one knee, which is when the other ghosts descend upon him. One strikes out with her fingers extended like claws, and three deep lines open on Dean’s cheek. 

“Come on, Sam,” Dean chokes as he tries to get back on his feet. He lashes out with the poker, but it’s to no avail. The ghosts are too many and he’s too tired and too hurt. His only hope now is that Sam finds the bodies quickly enough to destroy them. 

The ghosts converge on him, mouths opened wide in hunger as their eyes burn through him. Dean waves the poker. Damned if he’ll go out without a fight, though his last stand is shaping up to be much more pathetic than he’d imagined. He has one last view of the rest of the room before his vision is obscured by ghosts, one last chance before--

A shotgun blast sounds through the room. Dean gasps as the ghosts flee. They’re not gone, he can still feel them, but they’re no longer in danger of suffocating him. “Sam?” he calls, looking around with night-blind eyes. “You didn’t do your damn job, they’re still--”

He looks at the doorway and his complaint dies on his lips. The figure standing in the doorway isn’t his brother. 

Cas spares him one look but almost immediately his eyes focus just over his shoulder. Dean flinches as Cas lifts the gun and levels it in his direction, but the shot is aimed at the ghost lurking just over his shoulder. Dean feels the breeze as the ghost disappears. Cas is already focused on a different target, walking forward and firing without missing a beat. He’s grace and danger and the ghosts scatter in his wake. 

Dean watches him, heart in his throat, and wonders if it’s too soon to propose marriage. 

“You know,” Cas says after the third shot, “a little help would be nice.” 

Dean shakes himself out of his stupor. With renewed vigor, he grabs his poker and joins Cas at the center of the room. He presses himself against Cas’ back, hefting the poker up in challenge. There’s a hell of a story behind Cas’ sudden appearance, and questions batter themselves against his skull, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Dean holds his breath, waiting, and then the ghosts swarm. 

During the Stanford years, it wasn’t uncommon for him to hook up with other hunters. There’s safety in numbers, and there was always a little bit of notoriety attached to the Winchester name, so he was never short for partners. Dean worked well with some, not so well with others, but he never found the same thoughtless partnership that he enjoyed with Sam. 

He finds it with Cas. He never has to think about where Cas is going to be, never has to waste time to communicate his next move. Pressed up against his back, Cas telegraphs all of his movements to Dean. Dean feels tension running through Cas’ right shoulder down to his hip and knows that Cas is about to take a step back to brace himself. Cas can feel the tightening of his shoulders and anticipate a swing of the poker. As one they turn, each covering the other’s back. 

It’s almost a letdown when the ghosts start disappearing. One by one, the ghosts burn out, leaving the room empty and Dean shaking. Without the adrenaline of the fight to boost him, Dean feels oddly drained. It gets worse when Cas pulls away, leaving Dean staggering in his sudden absence. Without Cas to watch it, his whole back feels cold and vulnerable, but Dean pushes that feeling aside. 

Now that the immediate threat has disappeared, he has other concerns. 

“Cas, what the hell are you--” 

That’s as far as he gets before Cas hauls back and clocks him across the jaw. 

The sound of Dean hitting the ground mingles with the sound of the basement door banging open and bouncing off the wall. Sam bursts into the room, looking a little worse for wear. The thin cut on his forehead has widened. It’s covered his cheek with tacky drying blood, creating a grisly picture. Not that Dean looks much better; he’s laid out on the ground, dumbstruck and bloody. Now that he doesn’t have anything else to concentrate on, the cuts on his face start to make themselves known. 

Sam’s eyes flicker between Dean, on the ground, obviously freshly punched, and Cas, wrathful, standing above him, obviously the puncher. Confusion flickers over his face, followed swiftly by rage. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” Before Dean can hope to formulate an answer, Sam’s gun is pointed straight at Cas’ face.

The sight of a firearm propels Dean upward. “Hold on a second!” he shouts to Sam. 

“Like hell--” Sam snarls, but Dean ignores him as he turns to Castiel. His jaw throbs with the memory of the blow, but it’s Cas’ nonchalant look which really sparks his rage. 

“Asshole, what the fuck was that for?” he spits. 

Cas raises one calm brow. “I owed you that,” he says, quietly enough that Sam doesn’t hear. 

Cas doesn’t explain any further. He doesn’t need to. Dean knows exactly what he was owed. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, leaving Cas with nothing more than a few scribbles and a shitty  _ I’m sorry _ note...If he were in Cas’ shoes, he’d deck him too. 

Doesn’t mean he’s going to say so.

“I owe you a lot more,” Dean sneers. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

_ You idiot,  _ he wants to say,  _ don’t you know that once you get into this life, the only way you get out is on a pyre? You stupid, stupid asshole, don’t you understand that I was trying to save your stupid life?  _

He’s furious at Cas, for reasons he can’t wholly describe, even to himself. 

“Well, at first glance, it looks like I’m saving your ass.” Cas’ upper lip lifts in a sneer before he remembers Sam’s gun and he forces it back down. “Most of the time when I save people from being eviscerated, they say thank you.” 

“Most of the time, my help doesn’t punch me in the face afterward! Anyway, no one asked for your help!” 

“Was I supposed to wait for a written invitation?.” Cas paces, his ire focused completely on Dean. “You could write it in blood,  _ since you were about to be torn apart.”  _

“Look,  _ buddy,”  _ Dean sneers the words, “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but just because you’ve got a shotgun full of salt rounds, it doesn’t make you a hunter. I’ve been doing this job since I was ten years old, and you don’t know shit--” 

“Well forgive me for not being initiated into all the wonders of hunting when I was a child,” Cas snaps back, true anger sparking in his eyes. “You see, I only just learned about the supernatural world a few months ago when I was attacked by fucking demons!” 

Cas’ right hand is balled up in a fist at his side, and Dean prepares himself from another hit, when a thin cough interrupts them. Sam looks at them both, patently unimpressed with both of them. 

“Look, I don’t really know what the hell is going on here, but can we discuss it somewhere else other than the place we’re currently trespassing at?” He shoots a sharp glance at Cas. “Really don’t feel like dealing with cops.” 

Cas’ look is so flat, it’s two dimensional. “Trust me, I’m not on any of their greeting card lists at the moment myself,” is all he offers. 

“You can follow us back to the motel. We’ll talk more once we’re in the room.” Dean gapes at Sam in astonishment. They’re supposed to be a team, him and Sam, making decisions together. Sam isn’t allowed to invite strange men back to their motel room, especially not strange men whom Dean has slept with. 

Of course, Sam doesn’t know the whole story. He knows the basics: after he hightailed it out of the motel, Dean and Cas fled to another motel in another town. He knows about the bargain they struck: freedom for information. He knows Dean upheld his end of the deal and Cas had every intention of upholding his end, at least until they were interrupted by demons. Cas and Dean fought the demons, they won, they split. 

It is possible Dean left out some details. 

“Fine,” Cas says, a little more bite than necessary in his words. He shoots a long, hard look in Dean’s direction before he storms out of the house. 

Dean feels every single word which he should have said pushing down on his shoulders. He’s not sure exactly how, but he knows he’s in the wrong in this particular situation. He turns away from Cas’ retreating back only to be confronted with Sam’s level gaze. There’s a wealth of words held within Sam’s eyes, none of which Dean wants to hear. 

“We’ll talk about it later, Sammy,” he says, hopefully forestalling any soulful questioning. 

Sam looks less than convinced and his trigger finger still looks a little too itchy for comfort. Dean pushes those concerns aside as he makes a quick sweep of the house to check for any stray items and heads towards the exit. 

He walks out the door and stops dead in his tracks. “What the hell is that?” he asks, pointing a shaking finger at quite possibly the ugliest piece of metal he’s ever seen. The beast can be recognized as a ‘76 Lincoln Continental the same way that bodies which have been stuck at the bottom of rivers for several weeks can be recognized as people. There’s a general indication in the framework which suggests this was once a car, but age has ravaged the body beyond all recognition. 

“It’s a car,” Cas says sourly.

Dean doesn’t know what expression is on his face, but he knows it is not complimentary. 

“I had to ditch the truck,” is all Cas says before he gets into the car and slams the door. 

Dean gets into the Impala in relative silence. The Continental is like a train wreck: as much as he wants to tear his eyes away, he can’t. His silent reverie is broken by Sam’s quiet snorts and coughs. Dean turns to him and the first instant of eye contact, Sam finally breaks out of him in huge guffaws as he thumps his fist against the dashboard. 

“You were handcuffed by someone who drives a Pimpmobile,” Sam finally gasps. Unthreatened by Dean’s glower, Sam repeats, “The Pimpmobile.” 

At least he doesn’t look like he’s itching to shoot Cas anymore. 

\---

Tense silence reigns as they step into the motel room. Sam seems to have forgotten his former good humor and Cas seems to have internalized Dean’s insult about his car into his small, bitter heart. Cas and Sam both take their places: Cas next to the door and Sam on the opposite side of the room, leaving Dean caught between them. He feels a little like he’s at the world’s most boring tennis match as his eyes flick back and forth between the two stationary opponents.

“The last time I saw you, you had my brother handcuffed to a chair and you were pointing a gun at me. Clearly some things have changed.” 

It’s not often that Sam gets to trot out his lawyerly skills, but when he does, there’s always a little glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. 

Cas’ eyes slice towards Dean. “After our...encounter, I decided on a career change.” Sam scoffs and Cas’ lip curls. “I honestly don’t care whether not you believe me, but if you know anything, then you’d know that I’m not law enforcement’s poster boy right now.”

Dean remembers. Cas’ face, when he looked down and saw what he had done, the minute trembles of his hands, the distant look in his eyes. The way that he’d shut down by increments, and how, even when they were pressed skin to skin, he’d been so distant. 

“Besides, there’s no way that I could go back, not after seeing…” Cas waves his hand in the air to encompass his point. “Demons, and ghosts, and monsters, and I’m what? Supposed to bring in Mr. Smith, the banker who embezzled a few million?” 

The same strange anger lights in Dean’s throat. It’s fine for him and Sam, there never really was any hope for them, but Cas… Cas could have walked away from all of this. 

Sam still doesn’t look fully convinced, but he’s closer than he was at the haunted house. “And you just what? Got all of this stuff by intuition?” 

“Hardly. I was told to go to Tara’s shop to pick up an anti-possession charm.” Cas raises his wrist, showing off the delicate silver chain with attached charms. They jingle together as Cas shakes his wrist. “While I was there, I simply asked for information.” 

“And Tara gave it to you?” 

“Of course,” Cas says, like Dean hadn’t almost gotten a salt round to the balls the last time he bothered Tara. “She was quite accommodating. She even told me who I could go to so I could get more help. A Bobby Singer, up in Sioux Falls.” 

An interesting choking sound claws its way out of Sam’s throat. It’s echoed by Dean. He makes a fervent mental note to murder Bobby the next time they wind their way back to Sioux Falls. 

Sam’s the first one to recover, though his voice is a little strangled and high. “Bobby helped you?” 

Cas tilts his head to the side. “You know Bobby?” he asks, completely guileless. 

Dean thinks back to Bobby teaching him and Sam how to shoot cans and throw baseballs. “Yeah, we know him,” he finally gets out.

“Ah. Well, he’s the one who told me most everything.” Cas shrugs. “At least about how to kill things. The hunting itself...it’s just a different skill set.”

“And you think that you’ve got it, huh?” Dean sneers. “What, you go to the Singer School of Hunting and now you’re ready to take on a whole haunted house? I mean, that’s what you were looking for, right?” 

“Do we have to go over this again? Who was it that saved your ass?” 

“And you want what? A cookie?” 

Cas abandons his post by the door to stalk within an arm’s reach of Dean. His eyes blaze and he practically vibrates with anger as he tilts his head up to look at Dean. “After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve given up...You should show me some respect.” 

A loud cough breaks them apart. Sam looks between the two of them, shifting uncomfortably. “Look, I’m not thrilled with the situation, but it doesn’t look like you’re working with the cops.” 

Cas’ mouth sets in a thin line. “I’ve told you now, several times: even if I wanted that life, it’s no longer mine.” 

Sam nods. “And since it looks like you and Dean are about to fight, I’m going to go on ahead and kick you out so you can do that.” 

“What the hell?” Dean demands. 

“I'm serious, I don’t want to listen to you two bickering all night. I’ve got work to do, so go out and get it out of your system.” 

Dean can think of several ways he can get this tension out of his system and none of them are particularly productive. He looks at Sam and finds no sympathy on his brother’s face. It’s one of those rare times when Sam is wholly serious about his course of action. 

He shoots Sam a look which promises that he’ll remember this and grabs Cas’ elbow, dragging him along as he stalks out of the room. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel knows Dean is angry. He can practically feel the rage coming off of the man in rippling waves. 
> 
> It still comes as a surprise when Dean seizes his shoulders and slams him into the unforgiving brick wall of the motel. 
> 
> Castiel huffs as the air is knocked from his lungs. He’s pinned to the wall by a band of steel, which has been masquerading all this time as Dean’s forearm. He can already tell there’s little point in trying to struggle free, but that doesn’t mean he surrenders with grace. He glares venomously at Dean, lip curling. 
> 
> “What the hell are you doing here?” Dean snarls, pushing harder on Castiel’s chest as he leans in close.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Castiel knows Dean is angry. He can practically feel the rage coming off of the man in rippling waves. 

It still comes as a surprise when Dean seizes his shoulders and slams him into the unforgiving brick wall of the motel. 

Castiel huffs as the air is knocked from his lungs. He’s pinned to the wall by a band of steel, which has been masquerading all this time as Dean’s forearm. He can already tell there’s little point in trying to struggle free, but that doesn’t mean he surrenders with grace. He glares venomously at Dean, lip curling. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean snarls, pushing harder on Castiel’s chest as he leans in close. 

Castiel shrugs. “If we’re both hunting, then it stands to reason that we’d run into each other eventually.” 

His explanation is far from the truth as to boggle the imagination, but Castiel is going to keep that under wraps. He won’t talk about it. Not here, out in the open, not when Dean’s expression is a strange mixture of anger and amazement. Not when Castiel’s own anger still simmers in his chest. 

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this life. You know what I don’t see a lot of?” Dean waits for a moment, but Castiel wouldn’t dream of giving him the satisfaction of playing along. “Coincidences,” Dean finishes, looking displeased at having to answer his own riddle. “What are the odds you would just happen to stumble into a job we were working?” 

Castiel knows now that the people who would like to paint Dean Winchester as nothing more than empty brawn are wrong, but it startles him just how incorrect they are. The Dean Winchester he’s seen is nothing short of brilliant. The intuitive leaps he makes are enough to boggle Castiel’s logical mind. 

Dean’s irritation is in no mood to deal with Castiel’s silence. He pushes his forearm into Castiel’s collarbone, hard enough to hamper his breathing, before he abruptly pulls away. His withdrawal leaves Castiel feeling oddly cold. He pushes that feeling as far away from him as he can and does his best to ignore it. 

“Why didn’t you just let it go?” Dean finally asks. He looks at a point over Castiel’s shoulder, like he can’t even bear to look at his eyes. “You were out, you could have walked away… Damn it, Cas, why’d you come back?” 

“I don’t know how many times I have to repeat it before you’re satisfied,” Castiel answers, steel creeping into his voice. “I’m not exactly on great terms with law enforcement at the moment. I haven’t tried to offer my services, but I can only guess that they would not be well-accepted.” 

“So you go off and work at a damn gas station or something!” Dean explodes. His green eyes blaze with righteous fury. “Fuck, go be a faith healer, or a barista, or a first grade teacher. Anything but this!” 

Castiel’s brow furrows as he tries to put the pieces of Dean’s anger together. “I don’t understand,” he protests, even though he’s beginning to, “are you angrier that I managed to find you or that I was looking for you in the first place?” 

Dean blinks as he tries to work around the admittedly awkward phrasing. When he understands, he sneers. “So you  _ were _ following us. You need a new hobby.” 

Anger and shame spark in Castiel’s chest. “Don’t think so highly of yourself.” 

“No, I think I will.” A little glint of cruelty shows in Dean’s eyes as he regains his swagger. “Was it that good that you came crawling back for more?” 

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Castiel explodes, uncaring of the possible dozens of people sleeping around him. “You might have had your whole life to get used to the concept of the supernatural, but I had eighteen hours to accept that everything I knew about the world was wrong, that everything I’ve done in my life has been for  _ nothing.  _ And then, I had…” For one horrifying moment, Castiel thinks he might vomit, but he manages to regain control. 

“Michael was a son of a bitch, but he was the last bit of family that I had, and I lost that. Do you understand, Dean? I  _ killed  _ my brother. And you can tell me over and over again that it wasn’t really him, and how he was dead the second the demon took him, but it doesn’t change the fact that I shoved a knife into something wearing my brother’s face.” 

Castiel pushes away from the wall, advancing on Dean. It’s gratifying to see him take an uncertain step backwards. “So after turning my world upside down, imagine my shock when the person I thought could maybe help me  _ disappeared _ and left me nothing but a shitty little note.  _ I’m sorry,”  _ he sneers, throwing Dean’s words back in his face. “Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.” 

“It meant that you were supposed to get yourself a pretty little bracelet and go on with your life. Pretend like you didn’t know anything about things that went bump in the night.” Dean doesn’t sound angry anymore. He just sounds tired. “Cas, this life, hunting...It’s not glamorous, it’s not heroic. It’s pain, and horror, and death. Sam and I are in too deep; we’ll never get out. But I’ll be damned if I drag people down with me.” 

Dean spits out the black core of his anger and leaves it festering on the sidewalk between them. Castiel should be angry. He should be furious, both at Dean’s desertion and his callous mockery. All that he can muster is a helpless fondness. At the end of everything, Dean’s not angry because Castiel hunted him down for the second time. Dean is angry because he wanted better things for Castiel. 

Castiel defies anyone to be confronted with the full wonder of Dean Winchester and not become enamored with him. 

“Don’t be arrogant.” 

Of course, there’s no need for Dean to take on the full weight of the world, especially when it’s not necessary. 

Affronted, Dean blinks, then rears back in preparation for another verbal assault. Castiel doesn’t give him the chance.

“You don’t have a say in what I do with my life. You’re not responsible for my choices. Take responsibility for your own actions and stop feeling guilty over what you can’t control.” 

“Like hell I feel guilty,” Dean mutters, looking to the side. 

“Of course not.” 

He and Dean stand less than three feet apart, but they might as well be on opposite sides of the planet. It’s obvious that no matter what Castiel says, Dean is going to continue to blame himself for the outcome, and Castiel has no interest in attending a self-flagellation party. He didn’t spend a week and a half with the surliest of creatures, Bobby Singer, pursue several dead end cases and several all too real cases, all to be defeated by Dean Winchester’s cripplingly low self-esteem. 

“Do you want a drink?” he finally asks. 

Dean pauses. 

“I’m tired of fighting. Do you want to grab a drink?” A delightful idea occurs to Castiel. “We could have a rematch of our pool game.” 

The old sparkle gleams in Dean’s eye. “Just the pool game?” 

Castiel arches a brow. “For now,” he replies.

\---

It doesn’t surprise Castiel that Dean already knows the location of a dive bar. He doesn’t argue when Dean says, with great finality in his voice, “I’m driving”. His lack of protest seems to please Dean, which in turn, pleases Castiel. Instead of fighting, they spend the short drive in silence, which allows Castiel to observe the obvious pleasure Dean takes in his car. 

He’d been reasonably sad when he’d ditched his truck. It was a reliable vehicle, capable of transporting himself and his bounties across a variety of landscapes and climates. But in the wake of the disaster of his last job, his truck became one liability too many. He left the truck in the parking lot of a box store with the keys in the ignition. Let someone else try to explain how they came into possession of that particular item. Perhaps it’s paranoid, but Castiel figures it’s best to be paranoid and alive rather than trusting and dead. 

He hasn’t developed a great appreciation for the Continental; it was just a means to an end, though he did feel the need to come to its defense when Dean scorned it. At the end of the day, however, both the truck and the Continental were just utilities, methods of getting from one point to another. 

Dean  _ loves  _ his car. Castiel sees it in the unconscious caress of the steering wheel and the soft pat on her dash. When he settles into the driver’s seat, Dean’s posture is natural and easy, possibly the most relaxed Castiel’s ever seen him. Castiel can imagine Dean spending long hours behind the wheel, arm slung carelessly through the open window, the afternoon sun beating on his face. The thought brings a smile to his face and he turns towards the window before Dean has a chance to see. 

“So was this your first hunt, or?”

Castiel’s eyes flick over to Dean, who is doing a halfway decent job of looking uninterested in his answer. “Or,” he answers dryly. “I’ve found a few other salt and burns, but that’s it.” 

“And you’re alive, so you either did a good job running or a good job hunting.” 

“Which do you think?” Castiel asks, one eyebrow creeping upwards. 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention back towards the road. “No one likes a cocky son of a bitch.” 

Castiel allows himself a small, smug smile. “I’ve found that’s simply not true.” He takes advantage of his situation as a passenger and allows his eyes to feast over Dean’s figure. “I think you quite enjoy it.” 

If it weren’t so dark, then Castiel might be able to appreciate the pink flush spreading over Dean’s skin. He has the wild idea of putting his thumb to the apple of Dean’s cheek in order to feel the heat, but he quickly suppresses the desire. 

Perhaps it wasn’t just the need for revenge or knowledge which sent Castiel on his quest to understand the supernatural world. Perhaps it was the yearning to see the soft facets of an otherwise hard man. 

Dean scoffs, though the sound is weak. “Arrogant little prick,” he says, but the words come out sounding almost fond. 

  
  


\---

With two drinks coursing through his system, Castiel finds himself supremely uninterested in anything that is not getting his hands on Dean. 

Dean’s going to extra lengths to tease and frustrate him, almost fellating the rim of his beer bottle as he raises it to his lips, eyes on Castiel the whole time. A smirk flirts across his lips as his tongue darts out to lap a stray drop of liquid winding its way slowly down the neck of the bottle. Heat unrelated to the alcohol starts to boil in the pit of Castiel’s belly. Dean is testing him and he doesn’t know how long his stores of self-control will hold. 

Not long if Dean keeps stroking his finger along the ridges of the bottle. His other hand sits on the table, his fingers splayed wide. Every so often Dean’s pinky crosses the no man’s land between them and brushes against his. Such a small contact to ignite such large sparks. 

Dean’s eyes, heavy with purpose, linger on his face. Castiel feels the examination of his every feature, but Dean’s eyes linger especially long on his lips. His tongue sweeps over the chapped flesh of his lower lip. Dean’s leaning in so close that he can actually see how his pupils dilate in response to the gesture. It’s at that point Castiel wonders how long they’re going to play this game of chicken. 

Castiel finishes off his beer, smearing a few stray drops away from his lips with a brush of his thumb. Dean’s eyes track his movements with naked hunger. “I think it’s time for that rematch, don’t you?” 

The tingling of his fingertips and the weightlessness of his steps let Castiel know exactly how close to the line of drunk he’s wandered, but he doesn’t mind. He feels unhinged with Dean’s gaze on him, like the whole world lays before him and he has only to stretch out his fingers in order to take it. It’s like an iron band has been loosened around his chest and he’s able to breathe for the first time. 

“What do you want to play for?” Dean looks up as he racks the balls. The devil glints in his eyes and at the sharp edges of his smile. Castiel can guess what kind of stakes Dean wants to play for, and while part of Castiel wants to be difficult, at some point he’s just getting in his own way. 

He slips his hand into his back pocket and touches cool metal. Slowly, making sure Dean sees every motion, he lays the handcuffs on the bumper of the pool table. Satisfaction warms his belly as he watches the bob of Dean’s throat. 

“Winner takes these.” Castiel tries to make his voice light and carefree, but he’s not fooling anyone. It doesn’t matter; that wasn’t the point. 

Dean’s fingers brush over the cuffs for just a moment before Castiel yanks them back. “Play the game first,” he murmurs, a smile darting over his face at Dean’s frown. 

“If you let me break, you’re going to be watching the game,” Dean warns. 

Castiel pays attention to everything--the bow of Dean’s legs as he braces his hips against the table, the strength of his fingers as he grips the pool cue, the tilt of his head as he regards both Castiel and the table. 

The best games are always the ones where victory is uncertain. 

“We’ll see,” he says, jerking his chin towards the table. “Start the game.” 

“You’re a bossy son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, even as he follows Castiel’s instructions. “See how bossy you are when you’ve got a set of cuffs on you.” 

Castiel allows his smile to spread across his face, slow and sickly sweet as syrup. “Is that what you think is going to happen?” 

Dean shoots him a dirty look. Castiel can almost taste the adrenaline in the back of his throat. It feels like the moments before he gets into a good fight. He’s almost vibrating with the need to  _ move  _ by the time Dean finally lines up his first shot. 

Normally, he would appreciate the care with which Dean lines up his shot. There’s artistry in his motions, along with the fluid grace which comes only from confidence and experience. Any other time, Castiel would admire the clean lines of Dean’s back and shoulders as well as the ripple of muscles from his back all the way down to his hips. 

But he’s overtaken with a  _ want  _ strong enough to fell a lesser man, so he only notes these details with a cursory interest. He barely pays attention to how many shots Dean sinks, though he knows it’s a fair amount. It’s an unsteady hand which makes the first shot, luck and experience guiding his hand more than concentration. By the third shot, Dean’s relaxed in the comfortable rhythms of the game, and is therefore more susceptible to distractions. 

Dean leans over the table, tilting his head as he examines different angles through narrowed eyes. It allows Castiel to sidle next to him, unseen, and it allows him to pin Dean to the table with one subtle twist of his hips. 

A harsh, choked sound tears from Dean. He immediately tries to buck against the restraint, but Castiel anticipated that. He shifts his weight and slams his hands down on either side of Dean’s shoulders. 

“You’ve got a lot to pay me back for,” he murmurs, dipping his head to brush his lips against Dean’s ear. “And I don’t think a single game is going to cover it all.” He rolls his hips, enough to get his point across before he steps back. 

Dean lurches forward, his hand slapping at the surface of the pool table to keep him upright. He’s motionless for a long second, enough for Castiel to fear that he overplayed his hand. But he needn’t have worried. 

Dean whirls around, his eyes snapping fire and desire in his direction. “Fuck the game,” he snarls. His hand reaches out, and for a wild, intoxicating moment, Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean means to kiss him or hit him. 

Neither, it turns out, as Dean drags him forward. The tips of their noses brush, and Castiel feels the heat of Dean’s breath against his skin. “I’m done playing games,” Dean says, each word falling like a stone. “Are you?” 

Castiel stops himself from nodding like an idiot, though the jerk of his head is much too eager. “Good,” Dean says, voice low and ruthless. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Dean’s blood is boiling underneath his skin. He’s amazed Cas can’t feel it through the thin barrier of his clothes. All of his former complaints seem petty in the face of feeling Cas against him once more. 

He knows, as he walks back out to the Impala, Cas following closely behind him, that he should probably stop and think about this. He’s still not wholly sure he can trust Cas, though it seems like a hell of a lot of trouble to go through if all Cas wanted was to collect his bounty. 

If he’s being honest, it’s not Cas who is the problem. He doesn’t trust himself around Cas. The second Cas walks into his peripheral, it’s like blinders are slapped on his eyes. He forgets his instincts and habits and throws himself headlong into reckless situations. That’s how good hunters get themselves killed. More importantly, that’s how good hunters get the people around them killed.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Dean’s tempted to ignore it, but ignoring calls is a habit which could become deadly in his line of work, so he answers it. A text from Sam flashes across the screen. 

**_I have no idea when you and Cas are getting back but just so you know, I got another hotel room._ **

Dean swallows hard as he reads the message. The message behind the words takes a few seconds to soak into his brain, but when it does, he swallows around a suddenly dry mouth. 

Cas’ feet crunch on the gravel behind him. Combined with Sam’s message, it’s one thing too much, and Dean snaps. 

It’s easy to twist his hands in the soft leather of Cas’ jacket and spin him around so that his back hits the side of the Impala. A soft  _ oof  _ escapes out of Cas as the air gets knocked out of him, and Dean boxes him into the side of the car. He’s gulping in harsh bursts of air, his nose brushing against the stubble on Cas’ cheek. 

Cas doesn’t push Dean away. He wraps his fingers slowly around Dean’s wrists, but the hold is more soothing than forceful. 

“Dean,” Cas finally says, when it becomes clear that Dean’s own powers of communication are limited. “Dean, what are you--” 

“Why’d you come back?” Dean squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to look at Cas’ face. “Why’d you try and find me?” 

He opens his eyes to watch Cas tilt his head. Cas considers him for a long moment, like he’s weighing different options before he finally asks, “Where else would I have gone?” 

It’s a fucked up answer. At best, Cas is a weird stalker. At worst, he’s been sent by one of their many, many enemies. In a world which made any sense, Cas would have gotten away from him and stayed the hell away. 

But this is Dean’s world. It’s less than perfect, in fact it’s a whole lot of fucked up, which means that whenever he gets a little bit of good fortune thrown his way, he doesn’t spend a lot of time questioning it. 

“That’s a shitty fucking answer,” he whispers into Cas’ skin, a moment before he seals his lips over Cas’. 

Cas immediately opens to him, grunting in the back of his throat as he pushes up into Dean. Dean shifts his touch from Cas’ jacket to run his fingers through his dark hair, tipping his head back. 

Fire blazes a path through his body, igniting with every brush of Cas’ skin against his. He’s boiling, overflowing, and it takes everything in him to pull back. Cas chases his lips, but Dean puts a solid hand on his chest, pinning him against the Impala. 

“Turns out we’ve got a hotel room to ourselves.” 

Dean watches Cas absorb the meaning of those words and watches his expression darken and his pupils dilate. Cas’ tongue sweeps over his lower lip and Dean aches to chase it with his own. “Then what are we waiting for?” 

\---

Dean would stop for a moment to feel sorry for the occupants of the room on either side of them, but he can’t be bothered. Not when Cas is on him the second they stumble through the door, lips and teeth scoring a path down Dean’s throat. Cas is a whirlwind, his hands and mouth everywhere, until it’s all Dean can do to remain upright. 

Cool metal brushes his wrists and Dean jerks back. 

“Dude, what the hell?” 

For his part, Cas has the audacity to look perturbed as he dangles the cuffs off his finger. “You forfeited,” he says, slowly, as though he’s explaining a simple concept to someone who is very stupid. 

“First of all, that’s not what I meant. Secondly, I said no more games. And lastly, you said that the winner got to keep the cuffs. You never said shit about using them.” 

Cas’ mouth twists in a reluctant smile. “I thought Sam was the lawyer.” 

It’s an unpleasant little gutpunch to be reminded just how well Cas knows both him and Sam, because then Dean has to consider how he came by that knowledge. It’s a reminder as to why he shouldn’t trust Cas, a reminder as to how uneven the playing field between them truly is. 

Cas takes a careful step backward. “If you truly don’t want to, that’s fine. I won’t pressure you into anything.” Cas does a pretty decent job at keeping his tone even and carefree, but Dean can hear the flat notes in his voice. 

“I didn’t say that.” Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid, _ there’s no way any of this ends well, but what the hell. Dean spends most of his life getting punched and thrown into walls, and those are the good days. He’s not known for playing carefully. “But if you want to use those cuffs, then you’d better earn it.” 

He steps away from Castiel, leaving an arm’s reach of space between them. A predatory grin spreads slowly over Cas’ face. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in playing games.” 

Dean stares hungrily at Cas, noting the smooth shift of his muscles as he pushes away from the door. “This isn’t a game, it’s a contest,” he tries, though he knows his loophole is flimsy at best. “Anyway, are you saying that you’re not--”

Cas’ hand shoots out and snatches his wrist. His fingers are like steel, holding Dean stationary as he snaps a link of the cuffs against his wrists. The bite of the metal into his skin is what spurs Dean to pull away, cuffs dangling from his wrist like the world’s worst fashion accessory.

Dean can’ stop the grin spreading across his face. “Come on Cas,” he goads, lust sparking in his chest as Cas stalks towards him. “Is that the best you got?” 

“Not by a long shot,” Cas purrs. 

The motel room is small, most of it taken up by the two queen beds. The cramped confines don’t leave much room for an impressive fight, which is why Dean falls for Cas’ feint to the left. At least, that’s what he’ll say upon questioning. The truth, buried deep inside places Dean doesn’t like to look at too often, is that he doesn’t really want to win this game. 

Cas crosses the barrier of the bed in one easy leap. The tired springs of the mattress creak under his weight as he jumps from the bed to the ground. Dean makes an attempt to fend him off, but it’s child’s play for Cas to deflect his half-hearted blows. In one smooth movement, Cas slams Dean’s chest into the wall and drags his hands behind his back. The air whooshes out of Dean as the cuffs snap closed. Dean struggles, mostly to test his range of motion and the edges of Cas’ leniency. Both are limited, it turns out, Cas’ forearm across his shoulders like a yoke. 

“I’m disappointed in you,” Cas murmurs against the shell of his ear. “Who would have thought that you were all talk?” 

Dean slams his head backward, narrowly missing Cas’ nose. Ah, it’s just like old times. 

Cas hisses before his fingers twist in the hair at the top of Dean’s head. Dean stifles his gasp at the sharp burst of pleasure-pain jolting through his scalp directly to his dick. “Not all fucking talk, and you know that,” he snarls, even as Cas manhandles him over to the bed. 

Dean grunts as he lands facedown on the mattress, nose pressed into the scratchy polyester of the comforter. Seconds later, he feels the dip of the springs as Cas clambers on the bed after him. 

“I’m going to enjoy taking you apart,” he says, low voice promising all sorts of dark pleasures. “You’re going to come on my cock, screaming for more.” 

Dean turns his head to side, glaring at Cas out of one baleful eye. “Pretty tough talk. You think you can back it up?” 

He shouldn’t find the ease with which Cas flips him onto his back hot. It shouldn’t send a tendril of heat shooting straight down to his dick, but it  _ does.  _ Cas’ eyes fall on the bulge in his jeans and his smile is sharp and pleased. 

“I think I can manage that.” 

Cas crawls over him, boxing him in with his knees and elbows. Dean’s breath comes in quick pants and he has to fight the instinctive urge for his hips to buck upwards into Cas’ heat. 

Cas hovers over him, keeping a hair’s breadth of distance between them. The nearness of him is intoxicating, enough to make Dean groan. “Fucking do something,” he snarls, clenching his hands behind his back. 

For all of his promises and blustering, Cas’ hand is soft as it touches the side of his face. His eyes are deep and inquisitive, almost like he wants to look straight through Dean. Caught in their gaze, Dean swallows and doesn’t know why, with all his clothes on, he feels stripped bare. 

“Yes?” Cas trails his fingers down from Dean’s cheek to his jaw, then down his neck, stroking lightly along the line of his throat. 

Somehow, Dean manages to understand the unvoiced question as well as the motivations behind it. With his hands cuffed behind him, it’s all too easy for this to turn into something it’s not. Warmth bubbles in him at Cas’ concern, and he shoves down his snarky replies to jerk his head in a quick nod. “Yes.” After a moment, and against his better judgement, he adds, “Please.” 

Cas’ smile flashes white before he leans in and kisses him. The kiss skirts the line between mean and not, full of teeth and tongue. Dean cranes up into it, whining when Cas pulls away. 

Not hot, not hot, not hot, it’s totally not hot how easily Cas hauls him up to shove a pillow under his back. Dean’s straining shoulders thank him for the consideration, even as his mind is torn to other concerns. Cas’ fingers play with the hem of his shirt. 

“How fond are you of this shirt?” 

“Not very.” The shirt is a bargain buy from Walmart; it came in a pack of four other shirts. Dean hasn’t formed an emotional attachment to it. 

“Good.” Before Dean can even think to argue, Cas reaches into his waistband. A small knife shines in his hand and it cuts through the material of his shirt, parting it like a thought. A few seconds later, his shirt lies in tatters, exposing his chest to Cas’ gaze and greedy fingers. 

“Fucking look at you,” Cas breathes. Nimble fingers make quick work of Dean’s belt and zipper, before he tugs both his jeans and his boxers down his hips. Dean hisses as he’s exposed to the cold air, hips bucking up for any type of contact. 

He has to laugh when Cas’ progress is halted by his boots. Huffing in irritation, Cas yanks the offending objects from his feet before sliding his jeans off the rest of the way. 

After that, Cas seems content to stare for several long seconds. His pupils are blown wide and he licks his lips with quick hunger. Unaccustomed to such scrutiny, a blush starts at Dean’s cheeks and sweeps down his chest. “Come on,” he finally says, when it becomes uncomfortable. “Do something.” 

“I intend to. I just didn’t get an opportunity to get a good look at you last time.” Amazingly enough, Cas looks almost shy admitting this, and he quickly deflects by reaching forward to brush his thumb against a nipple. Dean sucks in a quick breath at the contact. The sound seems to galvanize Cas, who slides off the end of the bed. Dean makes a low sound at the loss, but it stops almost immediately when Cas starts tugging at his clothes. 

Cas’ strip is perfunctory instead of teasing, but Dean can’t help but get turned on by the sight of all of that skin revealed. His eyes fall immediately to the knot of white tissue on Cas’ shoulder. He looks away, unwilling to ruin the mood with unpleasant memories. Luckily, Cas doesn’t notice the lapse in his attention as he shimmies out of his jeans. 

Bare, he slides back up the bed, bullying his way between Dean’s legs. “Normally, I would wait until you’re begging, but I’m feeling nice tonight,” he murmurs, just before he licks over the head of Dean’s straining cock. 

Dean throws his head back, heels digging uselessly into the comforter. Already he knows it’s going to be pointless, but he thrusts upward into the promise of heat, only to have Cas pull back. Dean groans in frustrated pleasure as Cas’ hands pin his hips to the mattress. “My way, not yours,” Cas growls. The hard hint of command in his voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine. 

“Get on with it,” Dean says (not pleads, he doesn’t do that shit). 

“Impatient,” Cas chides. He amuses himself with little flicks of his tongue to the head of Dean’s cock before he relaxes his jaw and slides his mouth all the way down, until his nose brushes the wiry curls at the base of Dean’s dick. 

A choked cry tears out of Dean’s throat. Cas’ hands keep him from thrusting, but  _ god _ he wants to, wants to fuck Cas’ throat, wants to watch tears gather and spill at the corner of Cas’ eyes. His fingers scrabble at the comforter, searching for purchase. He wants to twist his fingers in Cas’ hair, and judging from the flirtatious glance Cas sends his way, the bastard knows it. 

“Just fucking wait,” Dean pants. He’s torn between whether he wants to look at the ceiling or look at Cas--if he looks at Cas, he can guess this thing is going to be over in an embarrassingly short amount of time, but if he looks at the ceiling, then he doesn’t get to see Cas’ eyes with a thin sliver of blue circling his pupils or watch the bob and twist of Cas’ head as he swallows him down. “When I get out of these cuffs, you’re going to wish I was still in them.”

Cas pulls off, leaving Dean hard and aching. He bites back his moan of disappointment, gritting his teeth as he fights back a complaint. 

“Tough talk,” Cas sneers, right before he grabs Dean’s knee and flips him. 

Dean does moan then, face pressed into the comforter, as Cas hauls him up to his knees so that his ass is in the air. His fingers clench around nothing as Cas runs a hand over his flanks. “You look good like this,” Cas comments, delivering a playful swat to his ass. 

Quite out of his control, Dean’s hips shove backwards, seeking more. His sharp cry echoes through the room, leaving Cas to hum in delight. “Dean, you are the gift that keeps on giving,” he murmurs, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses all the way down his spine to his tailbone. 

With their bodies this close, Dean can feel Cas’ cock against his hip, hard and insistent. He rocks backward again, trying to say with his body what he feels too raw to say with words. Cas seems to understand, as he runs his thumb down his cleft to stroke over his hole. 

He chuckles at the shiver running through Dean’s body and the involuntary cant of his hip which urges his thumb deeper. “You’re going to be so good for me,” Cas murmurs. He pulls away for just the barest of seconds to fumble in his jeans. Dean hears the clunk of his belt buckle against the floor before Cas returns, one slick finger tracing around his rim. 

“Yes or no?” Cas asks. 

“Yes, yes, fucking--” His voice trails off in a high cry as Cas sinks his finger in to the knuckle, blazing hot through him. “Christ, Cas!” 

Prep goes swiftly from that point, as Cas slips a second and then a third finger into him, stretching him while providing the barest of stimulation to his prostate. All the while, he mutters filth to Dean, like, “One day I’m going to make you come on just my fingers, going to milk you until you’re dry and beginning me to stop.” 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whines, no longer caring how pathetic or close to pleading he sounds, “come on, would you? I’m dying here.” 

Cas doesn’t answer, but the sound of a condom wrapper ripping open assuages his worries. Dean shivers in anticipation at the slick sounds of Cas’ hand on his cock, punctuated by a low, grateful moan. “Yeah, come on.” Dean wiggles his ass, getting nothing more than an absent slap to his hip for his trouble. “That’s it Cas, come on fuck me,” he urges, nearly howling in delight as Cas’ fingers turn bruising on his hip, holding him steady. 

He turns his face into the mattress, panting raggedly as he feels the blunt pressure of Cas’ cock at his entrance. Cas stays there for long minutes, torturing either himself or Dean, it’s not really clear. 

Dean, nerves already singing with anticipation, breaks first as he tries to shove himself back onto Cas’ cock. Cas’ grip on his hips turns punishing, holding him still, as he pushes forward in a slow slide. 

Dean’s fingers spasm as his teeth bite at the comforter. It’s been a hell of a long time since he’s been fucked, and he doesn't think he’s ever been split apart on a cock like this. Everything burns, the edge of pleasure and pain too close together for him to tell the difference, but the fire roaring through his veins is intoxicating, and he can only shove backwards and whine, “More, more, more, Cas,  _ please!”  _

“You ready?” Cas’ voice, Dean is pleased to note, is a little shaky around the edges, like he’s having a hard time maintaining his stranglehold on his formidable self-control. It’s even better when Dean clenches around him to answer his question. A low, choked off moan rumbles out of Cas before he can stop it. Dean grins. 

“Fuck you, Winchester,” Cas snarls. There’s the sounds of shuffling, then--

Dean presses his face into the mattress to muffle his cries. Cas fucks like a machine, hard, ruthless snaps of his hips driving Dean forward across the comforter. It’s ungainly, urgent, knees slipping as they both try to roll into each other. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes through the room, along with the harsh sounds of Cas’ breathing. 

Needing more air, Dean turns his head to the side, gasping raggedly as Cas proceeds to take him apart. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. Each synapse of his brain, each rational connection--Cas unravels them all, leaving nothing behind but pure sensation. 

_ “God,  _ Dean,” Cas groans, “so fucking tight--” 

Dean curls his fingers into fists, whimpering as the cuffs cut into his wrists. He jolts forward, a pathetic cry falling from his lips, as Cas tangles their fingers together. It’s an unexpected tenderness, one that lights him up almost as much as Cas’ cock. 

“Like a fucking vise,’ Cas pants, ripping his fingers away from Dean’s. Dean moans at the loss, only to yelp as Cas hauls him back so that he’s sitting in Cas’ lap. His cuffed hands make the angle awkward, but it’s worth it to feel Cas’ cock sliding in,  _ deep.  _

The new position puts a near-constant pressure on his prostate, and Dean throws his head back on Cas’ shoulder, crying out his delight. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Cas says, before a rough hand runs up the line of his throat. Cas cups his jaw, tilting his head to the side in order to gain access to his mouth. He accepts Cas’ clumsy kiss, which is really no more than a messy meeting of lips and teeth. Cas swallows his cries as his hand wraps around Dean’s leaking cock, jacking him in uneven motions. 

“Gonna come, gonna, fuck Cas, make me come, need it, wanna come on your cock--” 

“The fucking mouth on you,” Cas growls, just before he fucks up into Dean with thrusts bordering on brutal. He thumbs relentlessly at the sensitive part of Dean’s cock, just underneath the head, and after that, it doesn’t take but a few seconds before Dean wails his orgasm into Cas’ mouth. 

White bursts from behind his eyelids and it feels like Cas is trying to draw his soul out through his dick. By the end, Dean’s babbling nonsense into Cas’ mouth as he shakes in his arms. 

“So fucking good,” Cas moans, bucking up into Dean a few more times. Even through the condom, Dean can feel Cas’ cock straining with release. He can taste Cas’ stuttered groan and relishes in the harsh bite of Cas’ fingernails into his skin. 

They both come down in slow shudders, Cas with his face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers at the soft kisses and nips Cas leaves on the overly sensitive skin, partly from the sensation and partly from the lazy, thoughtless nature of the gestures. Eventually either exhaustion or gravity take over, and they tip onto their sides. Dean hisses as Cas slides out, leaving him stretched and fucked empty. 

“Here, give me a second,” Cas says. Dean’s in no rush. He closes his eyes as Cas heads towards the bathroom. The sound of running water reaches him and then Cas is back, rubbing a damp cloth over him. Dean hisses at the sudden chill, but subsides when Cas snaps the edge of the cloth against his thigh. “If you want to fall asleep with jizz in your pubes and lube gumming up your ass, be my guest, but I somehow think that’s not your intention.” 

“And what if it is?” 

Dean can’t help the small grunt of pain which escapes as Cas unlocks the cuffs and blood rushes back into his arms. It helps that Cas is there almost immediately afterward, his fingertips rubbing away the pins and needles feeling and leaving Dean floating pleasantly in the afterglow. 

He might mumble something, in the twilight between sleeping and waking. Whatever he says, it makes Cas chuckle. Fingers stroke from the soft hairs at the base of his skull down to his shoulders and arms. Dean relaxes into the touch, turning into mush at each brush. He tries so damn hard to stay awake, to catalogue each and every one of these soft touches, but they pull him under, like the tide going back out to sea. By the fifth or sixth brush of fingers, he’s asleep. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Castiel rises slowly into awareness. 

Awareness comes a bit faster once he registers the harsh rub of cuffs against the vulnerable skin of his wrists. 

“What the?” His eyes fly open as he tests the cuff’s resistance. It’s futile, but it gives him something to do while his panicked eyes dart around the room. 

Memory hits him like a freight train. There was the hunt last night, meeting up with Sam and Dean, their strange acceptance, and then---Then there was heat and Dean, pleasure wrung from his body like water from a cloth. Then there was the laziness of the afterglow, the softness of Dean’s slack mouth. Dean had smiled as he drifted off to sleep, and Castiel had tucked himself beside him. The knot of tension which he carries in his chest had loosened, if only for a moment, and he’d drifted off to sleep, blanketed by the naive belief that maybe, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t alone. 

And now he’s awake in a very empty, very cold bed, with his hands cuffed together. 

The wave of anger which crashes through him is only eclipsed by the wave of self-derision. Fucking stupid to hope for anything, especially after what his life’s taught him. All that remains is to get himself out of the cuffs, which should be a fairly easy task, seeing as the cuffs aren’t connected to anything else, and then he’ll get the hell out of dodge. He won’t follow the Winchesters; he’s learned that lesson. 

“Hey Cas.” 

Dean sounds darkly pleased as he comes out of the bathroom, dressed only in his boxers. His eyes flick over Castiel’s form, still naked from the night before. A slow smile spreads across his face as he leans against the wall. He licks his lips deliberately, the tip of his tongue lingering on the swell of his lower lip. 

“Dean.” At first, Castiel feels nothing other than the overwhelming relief--Dean is  _ here,  _ he hasn’t left, for whatever reason, Dean’s decided to stick around, at least for a little while--but then comes the anger. 

Castiel rattles the cuffs. Dean’s eyes fall to his wrists. His smile widens, into something inordinately smug and mischievous. “Oh, you noticed those, did you?” 

Castiel raises his cuffed hands above his head, knowing full well the picture he makes. The sheets are tangled around his waist, leaving one thigh bare. Triumph sparks in his chest as Dean’s eyes devour the exposed skin of his body. 

“They’re hard to miss,” he replies. He shifts and bites back a hiss when the sheets scrape across his already interested dick. Dean hasn’t touched him yet, hasn’t even hinted at anything, and he’s getting hard. 

Who the fuck is Dean Winchester, to have this kind of power over him? 

“Well, turn-about’s fair play, don’t you think?” It only takes Dean a few strides to cross the room, all brutal intent. It goes against Castiel’s every instinct to lie there and not make any attempt to defend himself, but he quiets those nerves which scream for him to flee or fight and forces his body into pliancy. 

Dean crawls over him, hands smoothing up his sides to his arms. He slides a single finger underneath the cuffs to stroke at the soft skin of his wrists. Castiel’s breath hitches at the simple touch and the thrill of being helpless, at the mercy of a man who could kill him in at least nine different ways. 

With one hand pinning Castiel’s wrists to the bed and the other resting heavy on his hip, Dean kisses him, slow and teasing. He leaves Castiel wanting more, arching up into his kiss in a silent demand, but Dean pulls back. 

“This good?” Dean rubs his thumb over Castiel’s wrists, jostling the cuffs so that they clink almost inaudibly. “Are you okay?” 

Castiel hooks his leg around Dean’s hips, bringing their lower bodies flush together. He grins at the hard press of Dean’s cock into his hip, the fabric of his boxers already damp. Dean groans, his eyes fluttering closed as his hips roll forward. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Castiel growls. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn’t mention the love bites littering Dean’s neck or the thick stink of sex leaking from the room. Instead, all he says is, “I’ve been trying to call you for hours, assholes. There’s a case about four hours out from here. Probably a revenant, but it might be ghouls.” 
> 
> “Ok, so what do you want us to do about it?” 
> 
> Sam laughs. When neither Dean nor Cas echo his mirth, he looks back and forth between them. “I don’t know, our jobs?” 
> 
> Dean blinks slowly, sure that he’s missed a step somewhere along the way. “And Cas? Is he part of our merry band of men?” 
> 
> Sam’s mouth twists in a frown which has the potential to become bitchy. “I don’t know how merry we are, but sure. Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor use of a homophobic slur and a scene of child abuse (character in question is a teenager).

~*~*~*~*~*~*

After spending thirty-six truly delightful hours in their hotel room and ignoring Sam’s increasingly irritated calls and texts, Dean and Cas finally emerge into the sunlight, meeting Sam outside for a hasty brunch of almost stale doughnuts. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, something in Dean that he thought died with Dad squirms in shame, but Sam doesn’t mention the love bites littering Dean’s neck or the thick stink of sex leaking from the room. Instead, all he says is, “I’ve been trying to call you for hours, assholes. There’s a case about four hours out from here. Probably a revenant, but it might be ghouls.” 

“Ok, so what do you want us to do about it?” 

Sam laughs. When neither Dean nor Cas echo his mirth, he looks back and forth between them. “I don’t know, our jobs?” 

Dean blinks slowly, sure that he’s missed a step somewhere along the way. “And Cas? Is he part of our merry band of men?” 

Sam’s mouth twists in a frown which has the potential to become bitchy. “I don’t know how merry we are, but sure. Why not?” 

Dean doesn’t have to look at Cas to know that they’re wearing identical expressions of disbelief. Sam rolls his eyes. “Look, not to have a heart to heart over doughnuts, but you’re both being stupid, so here goes. I’m still not sure whether I trust you,” Sam directs a pointed look to Cas, “but in the past day or so, you haven’t given me a reason not to trust you. Bobby vouches for you and you did help us out in a tight spot. Both of those are good enough for me. Plus, I believe you when you say you don’t have a place to go back to.” A tiny little smirk darts across Sam’s face. “No one who wasn’t on the run would ever drive a car that crappy.” 

Cas’ head jerks up. “You think it’s crappy?” he asks, sounding oddly offended. 

“So  _ not _ the point,” Dean interrupts, before Cas and Sam can get into an argument which Cas will undoubtedly lose (that Continental is a stain against all things mechanical, and if Dean had his way then he would burn it to nothing more than a husk). “Sam, can I talk to you for a moment? You,” he says, pointing at Cas, “stay.” 

“I’m not your fucking dog,” Cas says. Despite his words, he leans against the wall, looking like he’s settling in for the long haul. 

A dozen snarky retorts fly to Dean’s lips, and he wisely chooses against saying any of them. Instead, he takes Sam by the elbow and drags him into his room, which is hopefully out of the earshot of nosy bounty hunters. 

“What the hell?” 

Sam, the bastard, doesn’t even have the good grace to look confused. “I’m sorry, did you  _ not  _ want Cas to come with us?” His eyes finally fall to the small bruises ringing Dean’s neck like a chain. “I thought you were pretty wrapped up in each other.” 

Dean flushes _ \--shame, shame, shame-- _ but he holds his ground. “I’ve hooked up with a lot of people, and you haven’t invited them onto the hunt the next day.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse. You really think that ‘Starla’ was prime hunting material?” 

“Look, I’m just trying to figure out where your head is! It’s weird, you see that right?” 

“I’m not saying it’s normal. You know, honestly Dean, I would have thought you’d be all for this.” 

Dean scrubs at the back of his neck. Cold shame curls around his stomach. He can almost feel his father’s sneer against his skin. “I just… Look, six months ago, he would have loved nothing more than to see us behind bars. And now, what? You want us to braid each other’s hair? Do carpool karaoke?” 

Sam casts his eyes towards the ceiling, either in exasperation or in supplication. “Dean, if you really didn’t want Cas to come, then you’d march out of this room and tell him to get lost yourself. But you’re arguing against something you actually want, and for the life for me, I can’t figure out why.” 

“Because.” Dean scuffs his toe at the carpet. He feels like a yawning chasm is opening up underneath him and the slightest misstep will cause him to tumble in, never to be seen again. 

“It’s not… It’s not fair.” Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean continues, though he feels like each word rips a little piece out of his chest on its exit. “Since when do we get what we want? You know this life--if you ever get anything good, then the universe throws another fourteen shitty things your way just to make up for it.” 

Thousands of other reasons crowd into Dean’s mind, none of which he shares with Sam.  _ Why should he get to have what he wants when the love of Sam’s life is six feet under? Dad sneering as Dean springs away from the boy he was standing next to, putting a healthy distance between them, but not far enough for John’s liking. His father’s curt command telling him to “Quit that faggy shit before someone finds out about you.” Cas’ cry as the bullet tore through his shoulder, Cas hanging limp and bloody from his brother’s grip. The squirm of happiness in Dean’s gut as he saw Cas walk into the haunted house, the warm glow in the pit of his stomach when he woke to find Cas’ head pillowed on his shoulder. The sinking realization that he now had something to lose.  _

“Then go tell him that you don’t want him to come with us but don’t look at me to be your bad guy. I’m not going to help you throw away the one good thing this life has brought you.” 

Sam’s jaw sets. Dean knows from experience that it will take a minor miracle or act of God to shift him from this course. 

“I like him, Sam.” 

The admission slips out before Dean can stop it. It feels like weakness, somehow, to hear it aloud. It feels like walking into a hunt and leaving all of his weapons behind, trusting that chance and luck will see him through. 

Sam, bless his lumbering, moose heart, never blinks, though a sad little smile twists his mouth. Dean doesn’t know whether Sam’s grieving more for himself or Dean. Either way, he understands the gesture, perhaps more than he ever has. “Yeah. I know. I kind of figured that from the…” Sam gestures vaguely to the hickeys on Dean’s neck. 

Dean’s hand rises in an unconscious attempt to cover his neck, and he has to force it to stay down. “Yeah, but it’s more than that. Like…” Like how Cas is an asshole in the mornings, at least until Dean ducks under the covers and sucks him off, like how, once Dean got a grip on Cas’ deadpan brand of sarcasm, he discovered that Cas is actually a funny little bastard. Like how Cas, for all his paranoia (it rivals Bobby’s, which is as impressive as it is frightening), falls asleep so easily next to Dean, years falling away from his face. 

“I really like him,” Dean finishes lamely. 

He’s not a stranger to this feeling. When he was younger and stupider, he felt it before, right before he told Cassie all about the things which went bump in the night. He doesn’t know exactly what he thought would happen--that she would drop her classes at college and run off with him in the Impala? That his spontaneous confession would somehow flip a switch in his brain and make him normal, someone worthy of spending their life with her? 

Dean’s not normal; he was never going to be normal. The part of him that craves the danger, craves the hunt, craves the violence--he can’t shut that off. 

Cassie was normal. She reacted like a normal person would. She called him a liar, told him to get out, closed the door on anything that might have ever been between the two of them. He doesn’t begrudge her reaction, not really. 99% of the world’s population would have reacted exactly the same. 

Then there was Cas, who heard the same revelation and believed it. Cas heard the same revelation and threw himself into the life because Cas isn’t normal. Whatever’s fucked up in Dean’s brain, the same thing is fucked up in Cas’ brain as well. 

“That’s why you’ve got to keep him close. If you really like someone, then you don’t leave them alone.” 

A shadow passes over Sam’s face, and Dean thinks back to his ill-fated trip to Stanford. Sam hadn’t wanted to leave, and Dean had bullied him into it. How many tragedies could have been prevented if Dean hadn’t succumbed to his relentless need for companionship, to drag someone else down into the muck where he lives? 

Sam blames himself for Jess dying, but Dean’s known the truth all along. He’s the reason Jess ended up on that ceiling, which means, in a roundabout way, Dean’s responsible for Dad as well. 

If anything happens to Cas, that’ll be Dean’s fault as well. 

Sam stares at him. For a second, Dean thinks he might say something, but then the cloud passes and Sam is just Sam once more. “Look, I don’t have a problem with it. Three pairs of hands are better than two and he can hold his own in a fight. It sounds like your thing with him is personal, and I can’t help you with that.” 

Sam turns around to start packing his duffel, an indication that he considers the conversation over. Dean’s not wholly done, but he can’t say anything else to Sam without it turning into a completely different argument, one which he’s not willing to have. Instead, he leaves, almost running into Cas when he walks outside. 

Cas’ face is a thundercloud. From the way he glowers at him, Dean can guess exactly what’s upset him. Still, that doesn’t mean he has to acknowledge it. 

“Been there long?” Without looking behind him, Dean walks to their room. He already knows Cas is following him. 

They’ve left the room in shambles. The bed is a lost cause, the comforter tangled at the foot of the bed and the sheets stained probably beyond repair. At this point, they consist mostly of a single wet spot, composed of smaller wet spots which have congealed together. They’ve knocked a lamp off of the miniature desk. If it’s not broken, then it’s not for lack of trying. They ripped the shower curtain this morning, Dean’s hand flying out for purchase as Cas sunk to his knees and swallowed his cock down to the root. The scent of sex hangs in the air, so thick Dean can almost taste it. It should all be gross, but Dean can only feel a twisted sort of pride. 

“All I heard was that Sam is weirdly ok with this and you’re weirdly not.” Cas follows him into the room but no further. He leans against the wall and folds his arms, chin raised in challenge. “Care to explain?”

“You’re not going to like it.” 

“I’ve no doubt, but I’d like to hear it anyway.” 

A thread of anger curls through Dean’s chest, sparked by Cas’ little sneer and the past twenty-eight years of his life. “Fine, Cas. You want me to explain? You want me to tell you how this life took my parents, how it took Sam’s girlfriend? You want me to tell you that almost everyone who ever had anything to do with me is dead?”

“What point are you trying to get at?” 

Fury tinged with fear bites at Dean and goads him forward into Cas’ space. “That I’m  _ poison,  _ Cas! That I’m the worst person you could possibly think of to join or to…” He presses at his wrist, wincing at the dull flare of pain rising from a bruise. “You stop to think about what happens if you get hurt?” 

“Then I get hurt. You don’t have a monopoly on tragedy, Dean.” 

“Goddamnit, Cas!” Cas never flinches as Dean’s fist slams into the wall less than a foot away from his head. “No one  _ retires _ from this life! If you’re lucky, you get to leave it on a pyre. The unlucky ones never get found.”

“You’re acting like I came straight from a desk job. The concept of a risky work environment is not wholly unknown to me.” 

“Stop being a fucking asshole!” Dean vibrates with rage, at Sam, at himself, at Cas, at the thousands of monsters and demons crawling through the world. “This isn’t a fucking joke.” 

Cas’ eyes are unwavering. “I’m not saying it is, but you’re treating me like a child. Apart from being unnecessary, it’s humiliating. You  _ know _ that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. If I need anything else, I’ll have you and Sam.” 

Fear overtakes anger, wrapping its cold fingers around his heart. Pastor Jim, Caleb, Mom, Dad, all of them dead, all because they had the misfortune to be connected with the Winchester name. Sam and Bobby were the only ones who managed to escape, and Dean was happy with that, glad that he got to keep at least something in this world. Then Cas dropped into his life. 

“I can’t… I don’t want…” Emotion clogs thick in his throat. Everything he wants to say is caught behind that knot and the words stubbornly remain at the back of his tongue. Defeat beats sluggish in his blood, overtaking him with its horrid inevitability. 

Dean wraps one hand around the back of Cas’ neck as he drops his forehead to Cas’ shoulder. Cas smells like the impersonal soap of the hotel but Dean still breathes him in, seeking all the comfort he can get. After a long moment, Cas’ arm loops under his, fingers curling at his shoulder. 

“I’m not asking permission,” Cas finally says, turning his head to speak directly into Dean’s ear. His breath is hot against Dean’s neck and his fingernails dig into his skin through the fabric of his t-shirt. “If you don’t want me to come with you, then I won’t come; I won’t beg. But I wasn’t lying when I told you I don’t have anything else. Whether it’s criminals or monsters, all I know is hunting, and I can’t show my face around law enforcement. All I have is this, and if I’m not coming with you, then I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and twiddle my thumbs.” 

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Castiel’s fingers rub at the tense muscles in Dean’s shoulders; Dean pretends like he’s not affected by the gentle touch. “An ultimatum would be pointless. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t owe you anything. But, if you were to ask me, then I’d say that I like you too.” 

Heat blooms across Dean’s cheeks. He doesn’t dare pull away from Cas for fear that he’ll be seen, that he’ll be  _ known.  _ “Shut up,” he mutters. 

“No, it’s cute. You’ve got a crush. You  _ like  _ me.” 

“Fucker, you just said you like me too.” 

“I know, it’s really embarrassing for me. It’s really easy to kick your ass.” 

Dean pulls back just enough to catch the mischief sparkling in Cas’ eyes. “Beg pardon? Cause if I remember correctly, the ass-kicking was a pretty mutual affair.” 

Cas snorts. His free hand falls to Dean’s hip, sneaking underneath his shirt to press against his hip. “Fine. The ratio of kicking to asses might have been equal, but one of us ended up in cuffs that night and it wasn’t me.” His hand sneaks around to Dean’s back, fingers dipping underneath the waistband of his boxers. “You really liked those cuffs.” His hand sneaks further down to palm roughly at Dean’s ass. 

“We don’t have time for that.” Dean’s refusal comes out a little breathier than he’d like, which he’ll blame on Cas nipping at his jaw. 

“Sam can wait.” 

“No, Sam can’t!” A voice calls from just outside the door. Dean slams his eyes shut, forehead falling back down to Cas’ shoulder. 

“Give us a second, would you?” 

Trust Sam Winchester, the Ultimate Cockblock, to unleash his superpower. Even Cas is helpless in the face of its might. His hand stops its southward exploration and makes a slow retreat back to the safe expanses of Dean’s waist. 

“Are you ready?” Pulling away from Cas leaves him cold, but it has to be done. Sam’s not above crashing into a motel room to pull them out, and Dean really doesn’t want to endure the marathon run of bitching Sam will unleash if he catches Dean about to round second base. 

“Ready for what?” 

“Don’t be stupid.” Dean can’t stop himself from kissing Cas, just once, with enough heat to leave them both gasping. “There’s a ghoul hunt. Someone’s gotta do it.” 

Cas’ grin slowly spreads over his face. Dean can only watch for a second before he has to turn around. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Slotting himself into Sam and Dean’s life shouldn’t be easy, but it is. It’s so effortless that Castiel spends weeks looking for a trap before he finally forces himself to accept that sometimes life allows good things to happen. 

The Winchester Brothers are two of the very best things that could have happened to him. 

When he’s not enraged and pummeling the shit out of him, Sam Winchester is every bit as congenial as Castiel predicted. In Sam, Castiel finds a sharp wit and sharper intellect. More than once, Dean calls them  _ fucking nerds  _ and turns on the TV in an attempt to drown them out as they debate everything from the current trends in climate change to the latent antisemitism in classic works of literature. 

And Dean. 

On good nights, he and Dean get a separate room. Dean complains about the added expense but never about the results. Castiel spends the good nights learning Dean: how he moves, how he comes. He drinks Dean’s sighs and allows his fingertips to map out the dips and contours of his body. In turn, Dean returns the favor, playing Castiel until he comes undone underneath him. 

On mediocre nights, they share a room with Sam, an activity which soon grows old. Sam’s snores, all of them with frightening volume and depth, tend to keep Castiel awake at night, and if he’s not dealing with that horror, then he has to contend with Dean and his wandering hands (admittedly, Castiel himself undergoes a few cases of wandering hands). He loses track of how many times he whispers  _ no, Dean, Sam is less than five feet away,  _ or how many times Dean hisses  _ Cas, are you fucking kidding me, with Sam right there?  _ Castiel becomes adept at the silent orgasm, Dean’s teeth biting into the heel of Castiel’s hand as he covers his mouth, his own teeth buried in the questionable material of the pillowcase as Dean’s fingers twist inside him. He loses track of how many times Sam throws a pillow at them, snarling  _ will you fucking knock it off, I have to sleep at some point tonight,  _ ignoring the fact that it’s his snores keeping them awake. 

On bad nights, Dean and Cas still get a separate room from Sam. On bad nights, Dean puts his fist into the wall and it comes back with bloody knuckles. On bad nights, Dean drinks until his words slur and his steps stumble. On bad nights, Castiel puts Dean in the shower and stays with him, on the other side of the shower curtain, just to make sure Dean doesn’t break his neck. On bad nights, blood stains the bathroom tile and sheets as he and Dean stitch each other whole. On bad nights, they fall asleep in the same bed but Dean won’t let Castiel touch him. 

Those nights are still better than the truly horrific nights. 

It always begins the same. Castiel is seventeen and unwieldy with his gangly limbs and unfamiliar body. It is a condition which is not improved by the shots consumed through the course of the night, or from the joints he smoked. The alcohol writhes in his gut like dozens of squirming snakes desperate to escape, while the pot still lingers in his brain, turning everything foggy around the edges. He has to pause, tip his head back, and breathe through his nose to stop the vomit from rising in his throat. Putting one foot in front of the other proves a difficult task, but after a few tries, he masters it. 

The light flickers on and Castiel flinches as his sensitive pupils are assaulted. Black spots float in front of his eyes, obscuring the world around him. When they disappear, Castiel’s heart clenches in fear. His brother, giant in his wrath, looms at the end of the hallway. 

“This is how you repay me?” Michael’s voice is low and deadly. Castiel notes that his fists are clenched at his side. “I take you in, give you a roof over your head, food in your belly, and this is what you give me? Dragging yourself back here, reeking of...” Michael sniffs and his eyes narrow in fury as he catches the earthy, skunky scent rising off of Castiel’s clothing. “You little bastard,” he hisses.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t…” All of Castiel’s protests fall on deaf ears as Michael strides forward. His face is shadowed, unknown, but his hands... 

Michael’s blow knocks him backward and Castiel hits the wall. Pain jolts through his body as he clutches his cheek, skin burning from Michael’s slap. “You’re worthless,” Michael hisses. Contempt drips from every word. “Look at you, a pathetic, sniveling brat. How hard is it to hold up your end of the bargain? I give you  _ everything,  _ and you can’t even manage to keep yourself sober? You waste of space, thank  _ God  _ Mom and Dad aren’t here to see what you’ve become, they’d probably kill themselves if they could see you now, drunk and stoned out of your mind--” 

The world spins around him. Michael’s words slip through his brain, tearing little pieces of him away, and Castiel gasps as he hears his parents’ voices mingled in with his brother’s. They all say the same thing,  _ pathetic, worthless, useless... _ Castiel finds himself on his knees, looking up at his older brother. “Michael, please…” 

“They should have put you in the ground the second you were born, we’d all have been a lot better off.” A ringing slap strikes the side of his face, snapping his head to the side. “Face it, Castiel, the world would be a hell of a lot better without you in it.” 

Light finally slices across Michael’s face, showing Castiel what he already knows: Michael’s eyes are pitch-black. The next time Michael raises his hand, he holds a gleaming knife. 

Castiel doesn’t know how it happens, but when he blinks, the knife is in his hands. He blinks again and watches his body move. His fingers wrap around Michael’s throat, squeezing until a sick gurgle falls from Michael’s lips. His arm draws back. The knife shines. 

Castiel wants to scream. He wants to inhabit his body again, he wants to  _ stop,  _ but all he can do is watch in mute horror as his hand plunges forward. The knife slides into Michael’s chest, shredding flesh like it’s ripping through tissue paper. 

He comes back into his body as the knife slams into Michael’s chest, just in time to feel the minimal resistance of his brother’s flesh, just time for the blood to start flowing. He’s shaking and terrified, hands covered in blood. He wants to let go of the knife but he can’t. He can’t. Michael gurgles helplessly, blood welling at the corner of his mouth even as it courses out of his chest. One of his brother’s hands twitches towards him in supplication. His eyes, when he looks at Castiel, are clear blue. 

“Castiel,” Michael rasps. Blood spurts from his chest with every breath. “Castiel, please.” 

His eyes are so blue. 

Castiel’s hand rises. The knife is so light. 

He wakes screaming. 

On horrible nights, Castiel wakes fighting imaginary foes, which is funny, because he already killed them. On terrible nights, he wakes in a cold sweat, his throat torn raw from screaming. On awful nights, he wakes with the weight of Sam and Dean’s eyes heavy upon him. If he were in his right mind, he would feel shame, but there’s no room for that now, not when he can remember exactly how it felt to kill his brother. 

The first night, he’s lucky. He and Dean have a room to themselves, which means there’s only one witness to his humiliation. 

“Cas! Cas!” 

Castiel wakes thrashing, fighting the sheets and whatever else seeks to hold him down. He twists, crying out in articulate rage and horror. He spills himself out of bed, grunting as he hits the unforgiving ground, though his lower half is still kept captive by the sheets until he manages to kick his way free. Heedless of his nudity, Castiel sprints to the bathroom, escape the only thought in his frenzied mind. He slams the door shut and locks it before he collapses to the floor. The tiles are cold against his bare ass, which help shock him back to cognizant thought. 

“Cas? Open the door, Cas.” 

“I’m fine, Dean.” His voice comes out as a rusty croak. “Just go back to bed.” 

Dean’s disbelieving laugh creeps through the thin strip of light at the bottom of the door. “Pull the other one. You really think I’m going back to bed and leaving you alone in the bathroom? Cas, you’re pretty and all, but you’re ten kinds of stupid if you think that’s going to happen.” 

It takes Castiel several long minutes, but he finally unfolds himself from the bathroom floor and unlocks the door. Dean stands on the other side. Unlike him, Dean had the wherewithal to slide into a pair of boxers and shirt. Also unlike him, Dean has a bright red spot blooming on the side of his cheek. 

“What happened?” Castiel asks, though he has a sinking suspicion that he already knows. 

Dean shrugs. Castiel notes how he tilts his head to the side to try and hide the mark. “What can I say? You’ve got a hell of a right hook, even when you’re asleep.” 

Guilt blossoms in Castiel’s chest. He reaches out to brush his fingers against Dean’s cheek, and in doing so, falls into Dean’s trap. Dean captures his hand and pulls him from the bathroom, his motions firm but gentle. 

“Come on. Back to bed.” 

Castiel allows Dean to bundle him back into the bed. Once Dean is satisfied with his job, he slides in behind Castiel, immediately curving his taller body around him. Dean slings one leg over Castiel’s hips, a gentle imprisonment. Castiel doesn’t fight or argue. He just soaks in the wordless comment which Dean offers, as little deserved as it is. 

Sometimes it’s difficult for Castiel to reconcile the two sides of Dean: there’s this version, who runs soothing fingers down his arm as he presses kisses along the line of Castiel’s neck and shoulder, and there’s the side which beat him to within an inch of his life, screaming obscenities all the while. Sometimes, Castiel thinks he might have tamed Dean, that his first impression might be wrong, but then he sees Dean on a hunt and knows that part of Dean still exists. The fact that it does doesn’t negate the existence of his softer elements. It just creates layers upon layers, which Castiel would happily spend years trying to unravel. 

Dean strokes over his hair. Despite the tension in his body, Castiel feels himself starting to relax. His mind is wandering when Dean starts to speak. “When he was younger, Sam had really bad nightmares. He was a squirrelly little thing. Sometimes he’d scare himself so badly he’d fall out of the bed. Dad would be pissed if Sam woke him up, so I’d try to stop them before they started. I’d wrap him up in blankets, try to make him feel...held, I guess?” 

Castiel dips his head to rest his cheek against Dean’s arm. “Can we not talk about your brother right now? It’s weird.” 

“Yeah. I just thought, you know. You’re not alone.” 

Castiel doesn’t say anything. Dean huffs a sigh into the back of his neck and presses closer. 

“Cas. With the amount of shit you’ve… Anyone would have nightmares, is all I’m saying.” 

“Because I killed my brother.” Castiel isn’t in the mood to mince words. 

“Cas.” Dean anticipates his retreat and stops it with an arm slung around his waist. “Cas, stop.” 

“Dean, fuck off.” 

It shouldn’t surprise Cas how quickly Dean moves, but somehow, it still leaves him breathless as Dean easily shifts to straddle him. “Listen, you stupid, stubborn bastard. You had a fucking nightmare. Get over it. You’re not the only one who has them.” 

“Stop.” Castiel turns his head to the side to avoid looking at Dean. “I don’t…” 

“Cas.” Gentle fingers turn his head back to face Dean. “You killed a demon. God knows how long that bitch had been riding your brother, but it was for at least a few weeks. I told you before, vessels don’t survive. If that demon had been in your brother for that long, then he was dead. You didn’t kill your brother, you killed the thing that had its hand up his ass.” 

“What if it had been Sam?” Dean’s eyes darken and he doesn’t answer. “What if it was Sam that was possessed? Would you have killed him? Or would you have moved heaven and earth to try and save him?”

“It wasn’t Sam. Cas, you can’t--” 

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Dean. And don’t tell me that there was no other option, because there  _ was,  _ and I didn’t take it.” Castiel chokes on his words. “Dean, I think…” 

_ I think part of me was happy I did it.  _

_ I think part of me is happy he’s dead.  _

“Cas. Stop.” 

There’s a fierce tenderness in Dean’s touches. Each fingertip has a purpose and a destination, and each serves to drag Castiel out of his own mind. Every stroke of Dean’s hand, every press of flesh into flesh, every kiss--they all drag Cas firmly into the present. Eventually, even his cock takes notice. Castiel gasps when Dean wraps his fingers around the hard flesh, stroking twice. Castiel’s hips thrust upward, chasing the sensation. 

Dean grins down at him, kissing his chin. “Hey there.” 

“You can’t distract me with sex.” Dean’s fingers ghost over his balls, drawing a slow exhalation out of Castiel. “Dean.” 

“Say the word and I’ll stop.” 

The shadow of the nightmare hangs over him like a persistent cloud in his sky. Castiel already knows he’ll never be rid of it. But Dean is a ready and willing distraction, and Castiel isn’t strong enough to push him away. 

He draws Dean’s head down to his, pressing a heated kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean smiles, tilting his head as he deepens the kiss, tongue seeking and finding entrance. Castiel gasps into Dean’s mouth as firm fingers work over his cock. “That’s it baby,” Dean whispers, stroking faster once he has enough precome to smooth his way. “Let go, come on, let me hear you.” 

It’s embarrassing how quickly Dean brings him to the edge. Castiel tries to hold on, but sooner rather than later, he’s spilling over Dean’s fingers. It’s not the best orgasm he’s ever had, but it’s enough to put lethargy into his veins opposed to jittery anxiety. He slumps back into the mattress, panting lightly as he tries to regain his equilibrium. Between Dean’s warmth and post-orgasm laziness, he can already feel his eyes growing heavy. The thought doesn’t fill him with as much fear as it should. 

“What about you?” Castiel reaches a roving hand under the blankets, groping for Dean. “I wanna…” 

Dean shifts his hips out of Castiel’s reach. “Don’t worry about it. You can blow me in the morning.” 

Castiel is too exhausted to argue. He lets his eyes slip closed. Sooner than he would have thought, he’s tumbling back into sleep, this time blissfully undisturbed. In the morning, he fulfills his promise. Dean’s expression, when he wakes up with his cock in Castiel’s mouth, is nothing short of miraculous. 

Castiel’s prediction is correct. The nightmares never go away. Not completely. The first time he wakes Sam with his screaming, Castiel wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. Sam does an admirable job at pretending it never happened, rolling over and ignoring Dean’s quiet words. Castiel submits to the coddling, like a child, and tries to push away the humiliation and anger. 

But those are the awful nights. 

Tonight is a good night. 

Castiel stumbles into the room, Dean close at his heels. They’re tumbling over themselves with laughter, both of them flush with drinks and cash. Scamming drunkards out of their money has proven an entertaining and lucrative pastime, and they work together here as well as they do any other time. They left the bar with $200 between them. That, when coupled with a successful rawhead hunt, makes them giddy. 

“Hurry up Winchester,” Castiel orders, watching Dean fumble over taking his boots off. 

“Keep your shirt on.” 

“I’d rather not.” 

Dean grins at him over his shoulder. “Something on your mind, sweetheart?” 

Castiel allows his eyes to travel over Dean’s lips, down to his shoulders, and then his ass. “Several things, actually. If you manage to make it over here, then I’d be happy to share them.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Castiel moves closer, pressing his hips against the curve of Dean’s ass. “If you insist.” 

It’s a good night. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	9. winchesters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel sips at his coffee as Dean rolls his eyes at both him and Sam. “You realize that when we find out this whole thing is nothing more than a nest of vampires getting their jollies out on the local livestock, you two are going to feel really stupid?” 
> 
> “You realize that when this turns out to be a turning rugaru, I’m going to be $60 bucks the richer?” Castiel rejoins, arching an eyebrow when it looks like Dean is going to argue. 
> 
> “Unlikely, sweetheart.” Though the endearment is sneered, Dean’s eyes are still fond. “See, Sam’s wrong because even though the bodies were torn apart, the hearts were all intact. Intact hearts equal no werewolves. And you, sweet cheeks, are looking for zebras when you should be looking for horsies. Rugarus are pretty rare and they work alone, which wouldn’t explain this level of attrition.” 
> 
> Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean’s mocking tone. It’s early in the morning, which means that Dean is playing a dangerous game by teasing him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


“Werewolves.” 

“Rugaru.” 

Castiel sips at his coffee as Dean rolls his eyes at both him and Sam. “You realize that when we find out this whole thing is nothing more than a nest of vampires getting their jollies out on the local livestock, you two are going to feel really stupid?” 

“You realize that when this turns out to be a turning rugaru, I’m going to be $60 bucks the richer?” Castiel rejoins, arching an eyebrow when it looks like Dean is going to argue. 

“Unlikely, sweetheart.” Though the endearment is sneered, Dean’s eyes are still fond. “See, Sam’s wrong because even though the bodies were torn apart, the hearts were all intact. Intact hearts equal no werewolves. And you, sweet cheeks, are looking for zebras when you should be looking for horsies. Rugarus are pretty rare and they work alone, which wouldn’t explain this level of attrition.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean’s mocking tone. It’s early in the morning, which means that Dean is playing a dangerous game by teasing him. Sometimes, that’s how Dean amuses himself, poking the bear of Castiel’s temper all day long just to reap the rewards of his frustration later that night when Castiel’s temper finally snaps. By now, Castiel knows the rules of the game, and he knows that right now, he’s being played. He doesn’t mind so much; the rewards for him are substantial, however, it doesn’t change the fact that, when he puts his mind to the task, Dean is supremely annoying. 

“I guess we’ll just have to see when we get to the police station.” Castiel doesn’t think he’s to be blamed if he’s a little peevish; Dean is doing his level best to be insufferable, not to mention that it’s almost intolerably early in the morning and coffee only serves to take so much of the edge off. 

“How about you and Cas take the police station and see what they have on the mutilations. I’ll go out to the scenes and see if there’s something the cops missed.” Castiel doesn’t know whether the look in Sam’s eyes is irritation or affection. Sometimes there’s no difference. 

“All right. Well, let’s get going.” Dean stuffs a giant mouthful of pancakes in his mouth. A thin trickle of syrup dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. Castiel watches its path and has to take a long sip of his coffee to distract himself from the desire to lick it off. 

By the time he and Dean drop Sam off at the farm, Castiel’s irritation has lowered to a slow simmer. The shift in his mood is most likely aided by Dean’s hand, resting heavy and possessive on his thigh as he turns the Impala around and drives back into town. It’s not a particularly long drive, but there’s still enough time for Castiel fidget with the knot of his tie. The suits are a necessary evil, just one more tool to aid in the job, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy wearing them. Castiel tugs at his tie again, trying to loosen the knot, but Dean slaps his hand away. 

“Stop messing with that, would you?” 

Dean pulls into a parking space just outside the police station. He tugs at his (perfectly straight) tie, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror before he gets out of the car. Castiel follows. He’s a little less put together appearance wise, but he makes up for that deficiency by being infinitely more mentally capable. He walks into the station ahead of Dean, only to stifle a yelp of surprise as Dean tugs on the back of his jacket, yanking him into a supply closet. 

The small click of the door locking is deafening in the miniscule closet. When Dean flicks it on, the brightness of the naked bulb overhead is blinding. Castiel winces, then shakes his head once he catches sight of the glint in Dean’s eyes. 

“In a police station, have you lost your mind.” He turns the question into a statement, to imply his disapproval of the situation, but it doesn’t stop Dean from walking forward with intent clear in his eyes. Dean easily boxes him in against the door with two strong arms on either side of his head keeping him prisoner. Castiel knows at least six ways he could escape, none of which would be silent if Dean decided he wanted to put up a fight. 

The shit eating grin plastered over Dean’s face tells Castiel that Dean fully intends to put up a fight. No doubt Dean’s mind has already traveled the same path as Castiel’s and come to the same conclusions. Unless Castiel is willing to make a disturbance loud enough to gain attention and blow their cover as FBI agents, he’s trapped.

“I assume you have a reason for this,” he says, rolling his eyes and flicking them up to the ceiling. Just because Dean’s forced his hand, doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. He bites back his gasp as Dean presses against him. 

“Just a little quiz before we go talk to the locals.” Dean twists his tie around his fist, tugging lightly and forcing Cas’ eyes to him. 

“We don’t have time,” Castiel tries, but his protests are weak as Dean’s clever fingers work at the buckle to his pants. 

“You’ll just have to work fast.” Dean’s warm breath washes over his ear, sending shivers down Castiel’s spine. “First, tell me how a rugaru is created.” He punctuates his words with a sharp nip to Castiel’s ear. 

“I refuse to go along with this asinine exercise. You’re wasting time and eventually someone is going to want a roll of toilet paper and then they’re going to find two FBI agents in the closet--please don’t make the joke which I know you are dying to make.” 

“Come on, Cas,” Dean whispers, dotting small kisses along his jaw as his hands open Castiel’s slacks. His touch, when he rubs at Castiel’s swiftly hardening dick, is teasing and light, providing no relief. “Don’t you want to get your prize?” 

“What I  _ want _ is to do my job, which you are keeping me from.” 

“Jesus, Cas, if I didn’t know any better, I’d be convinced there was a stick in your ass.” Dean squeezes his cock gently. It was intended as a warning, but it has the opposite effect as Castiel gasps softly and thrusts into Dean’s grip. Dean’s chuckle is warm and Castiel can’t help but bump his cheek against the side of Dean’s head. “Now, how are rugarus made?” 

“They’re not. They’re genetic. If a rugaru has a child it will be born as human but eventually start showing signs.” Castiel’s teeth ruthlessly dig into his lower lip as Dean’s hand dips inside the slit in his boxers. Dean’s thumb smears over the head of his cock, spreading the beads of precome over the skin. 

“Good, Cas,” Dean murmurs. Dark pleasure curls around Castiel’s stomach at the praise. “Why are they dangerous?” 

“Because they eat people.” With such a morbid conversational topic, it should be impossible for him to get hard, but here he is, hips rolling into Dean’s grip. Castiel spreads his legs as he braces himself against the door, fingertips trying and failing to find purchase there. 

“Two for two, let’s see if we can go for a hat trick.” Dean nibbles and sucks a path down the sensitive skin of Castiel’s throat, setting his blood alight. He cranes his head to the side in invitation, but he already knows Dean won’t leave marks. Even though his present actions might argue otherwise, Dean is a consummate professional. “How can you pick them out?” 

“As they mature their bodies change and, the less human they look, ah  _ fuck,  _ Dean…” His fingers tangle in Dean’s hair, pulling at the short strands as Dean cups his balls in his hand. “And they have a desire for meat, the rarer the better--shit, Dean,  _ don’t--”  _

Dean’s tongue plunders his mouth as he kisses Castiel with bruising force. Liquid heat pools in Castiel’s gut as he moans into Dean’s mouth. Kissing Dean is awesome, in the truest sense of the word,  _ to inspire awe.  _ He could get addicted to the sweep of Dean’s tongue against his, the sharp pleasure of teeth against his lips, which is why he feels so cold when Dean pulls away. He’d rather die than admit to the needy whine which tumbles from his lips as Dean pulls away, but it all becomes worth it when he sees Dean sink to his knees. 

“Gonna get your suit dirty,” he warns, then chokes on his gasp as Dean presses a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses to the skin underneath his navel, culminating with Dean sinking his teeth into the jut of his hip. 

“I’ll live.” Dean carefully peels his boxers down to his thighs and Castiel hisses at the shock of cold air hitting his overheated flesh. The soft kiss that Dean presses to the head of his cock is almost demure, but it’s enough to ignite fireworks in his brain. “Now, Cas,” Dean says, his lips so close to Cas’ cock that he can feel the brush from them as he speaks. “Final question, and then you can get the big prize.” 

“This is fucked,” Castiel pants, but that doesn’t stop him from running his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

“Probably. Last question.” Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes, and Castiel groans as a bolt of arousal punches through him. “How do you kill them?” 

Castiel’s brain short-circuits as Dean swipes his tongue over the head of his cock. He can’t think, not when Dean flicks the tip of his tongue over his leaking slit. Hot, he’s so hot, sweat beading along his forehead and the back of his neck. He never used to get to the edge this fast, but it’s Dean, and Dean is like a drug in all the worst ways. “Come on, Cas,” Dean teases, rubbing at the base of Castiel’s cock, “don’t you want your prize?” 

Hot, how is he supposed to think when he’s  _ burning--  _ “Fire,” Castiel gasps, fingers sweeping over the curve of Dean’s skull, hips rolling in a wordless plea. “Fire, you kill them with fire, ah, shit,  _ Dean--”  _

“Grand prize for you.” Dean’s eyes sparkle with his grin. His mouth is so very inviting, and Castiel wants nothing more than to ruin it. Dean’s palms are large and warm as they wrap around Cas’ hips to palm at his ass. “Come on sweetheart, fuck my mouth.” 

Castiel doesn’t need to be told twice. He cradles Dean’s head in his hands, thumbing at the corner of Dean’s eyes, before he thrusts gently into Dean’s mouth. Fingernails dig into his ass, and Castiel takes the warning. Slick heat engulfs his dick as he snaps his hips forward. Both he and Dean moan in relief. 

“You look so good like that,” he snarls, being sure to keep his voice low. There’s a working precinct just beyond the door, though the threat of being caught only increases his arousal. “Those lips stretched around my dick, sucking cock like you were made for it. Fuck, you’re so good.” 

He thumbs at the slick flesh of Dean’s lower lip before he strokes over his cheek. If he pushes, he can feel himself sliding through Dean’s mouth. At the sensation, he and Dean release identical groans. 

He shouldn’t be this close, this fast, but it’s Dean, and Castiel has given up trying to restrain himself when it comes to Dean. “Fuck,” he gasps, holding Dean’s head steady as his hips roll forward. “Dean, I’m going to--I’m close--” 

He whines as Dean pulls off of him. That whine turns into a groan when he sees one of Dean’s hands busily working between his legs, jerking himself in short, quick motions. “Do it,” Dean pants, licking at Cas’ cock. “Want you to fuck my face until you come down my throat.” 

There’s nothing gentle in Castiel’s hands as he pulls Dean forward. Spurred on by Dean’s low moans of encouragement, he thrusts forward into Dean’s mouth, chasing his release. He’s so close it doesn’t take much to push him over the edge. All it takes is Dean’s finger slipping between his cheeks to rub roughly over his hole, coupled with a greedy hum and he’s spilling down Dean’s throat, biting at his knuckles to muffle his moans. 

Castiel allows Dean to suckle at his softening cock until little tremors of oversensitivity rock through him, and then he pulls Dean away. Dean’s hand is still working between his legs, a hint of desperation to his movements. Castiel strokes through Dean’s hair, murmuring approval at the sight. His damp cock gives a valiant stir as he watches Dean twist his wrist over the head of his cock. 

“You’re so close,” Castiel whispers. He twists his fingers in Dean’s hair, relishing Dean’s small moan. The charms on his anti-possession bracelet clink gently together as he curls his fingers around Dean’s jaw. “Just from sucking me off, that’s how much you like it. Fucking look at you, so desperate, you look so good when you’re like this. After this hunt, I’m going to take you back to the hotel room and finger you open until you’re begging, then I’m going to watch you whine and moan on the end of my cock--” 

Dean spills over his knuckles with a low groan, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Castiel’s hip. He pants into Castiel’s skin, shaking as he comes down. “Fuck,” he finally mutters. He pats absently at Cas’ hip, affection plain in the thoughtless gesture. 

When he sits back on his heels, he looks around the closet. “You see paper towels or anything?” 

Castiel tosses a box of tissues at him. Dean catches them and wipes his hands clean while Castiel goes about setting himself to rights. There’s nothing to be done for his hair or the light sheen of sweat on his face, but he can at least make his clothes look a little less like he’s been fucked to within an inch of his life. 

“Now we get to go look at dead cows.” How Dean can be so cheerful saying such words, while dabbing the tissue at a tiny drop of come on his suit pants, Castiel will never understand. Not that he spends a lot of time pondering the mystery. For him, it’s enough that Dean exists. 

“Well, the sooner we finish, the sooner we can go back to the hotel,” Castiel suggests. 

Dean bites his lower lip. “Yeah. And then we can… What you said earlier sounded good.” 

Castiel avoids leering at him, but it’s a close thing. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t look so pleased with yourself. We still have a whole nest of vampires to kill before we get there.” 

“If it’s rugarus then you’re going to blow me again,” is all Castiel says, before he and Dean sneak out of the closet. 

\---

Castiel loses interest in eating anything but a salad for dinner (looking at pictures of half-rotted cattle corpses all day will do that to a man). Even with his sacrifice, he, Dean, and Sam gain little information. After a day of investigating, they know much the same information: something in town is tearing cattle apart. Considering the amount of dead cows the town currently boasts, none of them believe the ‘wild animals’ excuse which the sheriff’s department is peddling, but they have little else to go on. 

The only new information they managed to gain was a report of suspicious activity on the edge of the Barksdale farm, delivered by a sheriff who puts the word  _ apathetic _ to shame. “Old man Barksdale thought he saw someone hanging around the edge of his property last night. He fired some rock salt at them, just to scare them, and they wandered off, but you never know.” The sheriff then gave them the old “Can’t believe the federal government is interested in this,” which prompted them to sputter out some lame excuse about a connection to another case. This sheriff believed them about as much as the others did, which was to say not at all, but county salaries must not be what they used to be, because they left the station relatively unmolested. 

“So I think we should set up on the Barksdale farm, just in case,” Sam says, picking through his salad (apparently looking at cattle corpses got to him as well). “That’s pretty much our only lead.” 

“Tonight?” Dean speaks around his mouthful of burger. His eyes flick towards Castiel. “I thought, you know… Maybe you could handle the stake out? You’re a big boy now Sam, you’ve got this. Cas and I will stay in and uh, research. Lots of research.” 

Sam’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Gross, Dean! You really want to stick me with the stakeout so you and Cas can stay home and…” He makes a small gagging noise. 

“Please don’t include me in this,” Castiel murmurs, more to see the outraged look on Dean’s face than because he agrees with Sam. “I’m perfectly happy to help Sam.” 

“You’re a fucking traitor,” Dean gestures to Castiel, “and you’re a dick.” He points an accusatory finger at Sam. He takes a bite out of his burger, almost like a curse. “I’ll help you on this dumbass stakeout, and when nothing turns up, I’m going to kick your ass.” The look he sends Sam is withering, the look he sends Cas is smoldering. 

Sam gags again, going into theatrics as he mimes vomiting. “Please don’t involve me in any of your weird kinky sex stuff.” 

“Aw, come on Sammy, it’s a beautiful and natural thing!” 

“I find myself agreeing with Sam. Please stop.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Lame. Let’s just finish dinner so we can go to the stupid farm already.” 

His tone is petulant, but the combative stance of his shoulders relaxes when Castiel hooks an ankle around his. A reluctant smile tugs at Dean’s mouth. When he sees Castiel looking, he tries to smother it, but it’s too late. 

“Eat your fucking rabbit food,” Dean orders. He’s talking with his mouth open, which means Castiel can see glimpses of beef, bread, lettuce, and onion, all chewed up into a fine paste against the pink of Dean’s tongue. It’s disgusting. It should turn his stomach and it does, but worse than the vaguely repulsed feeling is the one bubbling up underneath it, the one that sees all of Dean’s flaws, all of his imperfections and instead of turning away, is just unbearably fond. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Dean makes no effort to hide his discontent with this plan. 

It’s a stupid ass plan that has them waiting for a nest of vampires or a pack of werewolves to reveal themselves just so they can munch on some tasty cows. Come to think of it, the cows killed aren’t enough to satisfy an entire pack or nest. Maybe Cas is right, maybe it’s a rugaru trying to stave off the desire for human flesh. 

Regardless of whatever the hell it is they’re waiting for, the plan is stupid because no way any self-respecting monster is going to come sniffing around a pack of cows with three hunters stinking up the joint. Dean hates to say it, but as long as the only bodies in the town are cattle, they don’t have much to go on. 

He’d much rather be back in the motel room stinking of cigarettes and mildew, on his knees and elbows with Cas buried balls deep in him, than kneeling in the damp undergrowth of decaying leaves and dirt, waiting for a no-show monster. He’d say as much, but Sam and Cas’ behavior at dinner leaves him to believe that such conversation would be less than welcome. Sam’s disapproval he can live with, but if Cas is irritated then he won’t put out. 

The first fifteen minutes are an annoyance. The first thirty are a trial. By the time they make it through the first hour, Dean is seething. He’s not alone; Cas is huffing in the way that presages a truly spectacular meltdown. Of them, only Sam seems committed to this course, though, as the night’s cold deepens, he does start snuffling shamefully into his sleeve. 

After the hour turns into two, Dean’s patience snaps. “Come on,” he hisses quietly, on the off chance that there is something spooky out in the field. It’s more likely that the thing he has to fear is a trigger happy farmer, but it never hurts to be careful. “Let’s just go. There’s nothing here, and I’m freezing my balls off.” 

“Maybe we regroup at the motel and then look in the morning?” Cas manages to make his suggestion sound reasonable instead of petulant. Dean needs Cas to teach him that trick.

Sam’s outnumbered and he knows it. He sniffs, scrubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “Just a little bit longer,” he says, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “There’s probably nothing here, but I’d feel better if we knew that for sure.” 

“And if it is vampires or werewolves, then I don’t see the point in trying to hunt them. They’re eating cows, which is upsetting for them and the farmers, but they’re not hurting humans.” 

“Aw, who knew you were such a bleeding heart, Cas.” 

Dean’s reward for his mockery is a dirty look which says that even if they do manage to make it back to the motel room without freezing any testicles off, he still might not be getting laid. Cas is such a grumpy little bastard sometimes. Dean is probably an idiot to find that trait desirable, but he can’t help but adore it. 

“All right, if we don’t see anything in the next thirty minutes, then we’ll leave.” Sam must be colder than he let on; Dean hasn’t known him to give up this easily in quite a while. He hides his smile in his shoulder and turns back to watch the cows, who give no indication that anything is amiss. Their soft loeing fills the air, along with the less pleasant scent of their manure. God, he’s looking forward to being able to get into the shower and wash away this night. Maybe he can talk Cas into going into the shower with him. That thought sparks a memory about the last time he managed to talk Cas into taking a shower with him, when he fingered Cas open and fucked him from behind, nice and slow against the shower tile, his teeth digging into the cord of muscle on Cas’ shoulder. 

It’s a nice memory, one to warm the blood, which is why, when Dean sees the movement on the opposite end of the field, he thinks he can be forgiven for cursing, low and long. He alerts Sam and Cas, who change instantly from sleepy, grumpy hunters into alert, killing machines. 

Cas’ body presses up against him, lean and warm, as Dean points to the opposite end of the field. “There. You see them? Four, maybe five.” 

The figures move again. “All right, why don’t we split up? We come at them from three angles, try and box them in.” 

Dean’s not wild about Sam’s plan, but he doesn't have any other alternatives. Right now, he’s interested in the plan which gets them back to the motel as quickly as possible, and this seems to be it. 

“All right. Silver for wolves, machetes for vampires, lighters for rugaru.” He grins, flexing his fingers to work some heat and blood back into the frozen digits. “By the end of the night, one of you is going to owe me a pie.” He slants his eyes over to Cas and barely represses the leer. He hopes his smile says  _ I will accept a good blowjob in lieu of a pie.  _ Cas is good enough with his mouth to make him willingly forego pie. It’s a thing of beauty. 

They split apart, Sam to his left and Cas to his right. Dean manages to keep sight of them both for a few moments before they disappear into the night. He focuses on the ground straight ahead of him, looking out not only for monsters but also for manure. A shiver of disgust shakes through him as he moves forward into the treeline. He keeps his eyes peeled while he wonders what pie he’s going to make Sam buy him. He’s so caught up in his internal debate between cherry and apple, no wonder he doesn’t see the ambush waiting for him.

Something shoves him from behind. Dean grunts as he hits the ground, the air knocked out of his lungs. Immediately, he gropes at his hip for his gun, but his fingers have only just brushed the cool metal of the grip before his arm is wrenched behind his back. An involuntary snarl of pain bursts out from behind his teeth. Dean bites it back but not soon enough. 

“Dean? Dean!” Cas’ voice echoes through the trees because the stupid son of a bitch has never learned how to keep his mouth shut when it counts. 

“Walk,” a harsh voice orders. They don’t give him a choice. He's a few inches away from having his arm broken, so when he gets an unsubtle push forward, there’s little else he can do other than start walking. 

“You going to at least buy me dinner?” Probably not smart to mouth off to the thing capable of breaking his arm, but it’s more of a reflex than anything else. He hopes, that by goading a reaction out of his captor, he might discover who or what they are, but their discipline and silence hold firm. He tries not to think about how he hasn’t heard from either Sam or Cas in several long minutes. 

“Shut your stupid mouth,” is all he gets, along with a warning shake of his arm. A bright flare of pain shoots from his shoulder down to his arm and his knees buckle. It goes against every instinct he has, but he doesn’t mouth off again. Whatever has him means business, and he’s no good to anyone if he’s sporting a broken arm. 

He’s marched to a small clearing. A faint sliver of moonlight filters through the canopy of trees overhead, providing faint light. A small fire flickers at the corner of the clearing, casting just enough light to make the scene reminiscent of every cheap 90’s horror flick Dean’s ever had the misfortune to watch. The whole scene screams  _ satanic sacrifice. _

Before Dean can try to figure out possible avenues for escape, commotion stirs to his left. Dean wrenches around to see two figures dragging another, much larger figure behind them. His heart clenches in his chest as he recognizes Sam’s hair, some of it plastered to his face with the blood trickling from his scalp. 

“Sam? Sam!” Sam’s face is pale and waxen, but his breathing is regular, which gives Dean hope. “Sammy!” 

No consequences matter. A broken arm is a small price to pay for knowledge of Sam’s wellbeing. Dean tries to wrench free, but a swift kick to the back of his knees topples him. He grunts as a knee lands in the center of his back, expertly pinning him. 

“You son of a bitch,” he snarls, thrashing uselessly, “I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? Sam!” Forget stealth, forget pain. None of it matters when Sam is ten feet away and only just starting to come around to consciousness. 

Sam blinks slowly, his forehead furrowing as he takes in their surroundings. Sam’s first reaction is to struggle, only to find he’s pinned as thoroughly as Dean. Their captors don’t speak, which is troubling. Most monsters like to taunt. The ones that don’t usually have either a higher purpose or a leader holding them in check. Either way, it usually ends up bad for them. 

“Sam?” Dean asks, once Sam subsides, panting from the exertion. “You ok?” 

“Great,” Sam answers, voice thick. “Never better.” 

Dean’s heart sinks when he hears footsteps coming from the right. No. Bad enough that they have Sam. 

His worst fears are confirmed when Castiel is dragged through the trees. His lip is split and his eyes are snapping fury as he looks around the clearing. His eyes find them easily, and Dean sees the quick coil of tension as Cas considers the odds. It’s up to him to call out, “Cas,” hoping that Cas will understand what he means.

_ Not yet, not while we’re outnumbered and we don’t know what the hell these fuckers want.  _

Castiel meets his eyes and deliberately relaxes, though he glowers fiercely. 

“Are we going to get this show on the road, or what?” Calling out from the ground with someone’s knee dug into his back isn’t necessarily negotiating from a place of strength, but the longer they wait, the worse the itch under Dean’s skin becomes. He’d rather have this over with than wait and see what else is coming towards them. 

“Aw, come on Dean-o. You don’t want to savor the reunion with old friends?” 

Cold fear shocks through him. He knows that voice. 

He cranes his head up as boots step into the clearing. He trails his eyes up from the boots, to a pair of shapely legs encased in skintight leather, to a black leather jacket, and finally to long dark hair and a round face smirking down at him. Meg lifts an eyebrow, a wicked smile curling around her lips like a snake’s tongue tasting the air. 

“It’s good to see you,” she says, before grinning and flicking her fingers. 

Dean cries out as his back hits a tree trunk; from either side he hears Sam and Cas’ similar noises. He fights against the hold her powers have on his body, even though he knows he won’t be able to break free. For his efforts, he just gets slammed back into the tree once more, his skull cracking against the trunk. 

“Long time, no see, Meg,” he pants. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas’ head snap towards him. Of course he would recognize the name of the demon indirectly responsible for his brother’s death. “Is it just me or do you look skankier than last time?” 

“Cute,” she sneers. The firelight casts strange shadows on her face, turning it vicious. Dean catches her clenching her fist and braces for the pain he knows is about to twist his innards. Instead, it’s Sam he hears shouting a second later. 

“Look, you bitch--”

“Every time you smart off to me, it’s one of them that gets hurt. I mean, that’s what you’re used to, right? All you do is manage to get the people around you hurt, but this time you’ll be able to see a quicker return on your investment.” She smirks at him, blood and smoke caught between her teeth. “So what? You wanna give me any more of those zingy Dean Winchester one-liners?” 

Dean would love to show her the full length and breadth of the Winchester wit, but not with Sam’s cries still echoing through the clearing. He clenches his jaw and doesn’t spit in Meg’s face as her fingernails rasp over his chin. He’s pinned so thoroughly by Meg’s powers that he’s not even afforded the small luxury of jerking his head away. 

“Good boy,” Meg coos, before she turns her attention to Sam. “Sammy Winchester. You’re looking more butch by the day.” Her eyes undress Sam as her tongue lolls out of her mouth to lap at her lips. “No more of those super special powers to ruin your day?” 

“Leave him alone, bitch,” Dean growls, but the last syllable of  _ bitch  _ is drowned out by Cas’ sharp cry. 

Meg turns back to him, a cold, cruel light in her eyes. There’s an almost unhinged quality to her smile. Though Meg was never the epitome of mental health, Dean realizes that she’s almost completely broken. Great. Just what they need. A psychotic, homicidal, crazy demon bent on their demise and the inevitable subjugation of the world. 

Meg stalks over to Castiel, her voice dropping into a seductive purr. “And I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet.” She surveys Cas with interest. “Where did you come from? Used to be, the Winchesters didn’t pick up strays.” 

Her hand reaches out, fingers curved in a claw. All Dean can see are her nails digging into Cas’ face, ripping him apart, rending flesh from bone. “Leave him the hell alone!” he shouts, regardless of potential consequences. 

Meg’s fingers twist. Cas tries to bite back his cry of pain. He almost succeeds. 

“Dean, honey, I wasn’t talking to you, so why don’t you stuff it?” Meg’s tone could be mistaken for pleasant, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s a murderous demon from hell. Her eyes glint black in the fire’s glow. “What’s your name, handsome?” 

Cas’ eyes flick towards Dean in a silent question. If he’s looking for an answer, he must not find one because he turns back to Meg and answers, “Castiel.” His chin lifts in defiance, though some of his pride disappears at Meg’s smile. 

“Castiel.” Meg rolls the name around in her mouth like a particularly delicious treat. “I knew a Castiel once. Definitely not as good looking as you and not as much fun either. He had a stick up his ass the size of the Chrysler Building, but you…” Her eyes flick to Dean and her voice turns sultry. “I’ll bet you’ve had much more fun stuff up your ass, huh angel?” 

“Look, if you’re going to flirt, then you can just do that with me,” Dean grits. He winces, waiting for either Sam or Cas’ cry of pain, but none is forthcoming. When he opens his eyes, Meg is right in front of him. 

“I’m just amazed that trash like the Winchesters got a sweet little angel to go along with them.” Dean catches the twitch of her fingers, right before pain rips through his chest. He tastes metal at the back of his throat. When he spits, red coats his lips. “I was already having a hard time figuring out whose intestines I was going to rip out first, now it turns out that I’ve got a third person to play with?” 

Sam’s been oddly quiet throughout this whole encounter. Only when the demon closest to Sam drops to his knees, face contorting in agony, does Dean discover why. A guttural snarl comes out of the demon’s mouth, but Dean hears the low, furtive whispering of an exorcism underneath it. Black smoke bursts out of the demons’ mouths and spirals into the ground, where it disappears with a few smoldering embers. 

Meg’s hand slashes out, opening four slices along Sam’s cheek. “An exorcism?” she snaps, ignoring Dean’s wordless shout of rage. “You must think I’m cheap these days.” 

Sam smiles, teeth tinged red with blood. “You’ve always been cheap,” he pants, before spitting out a few more words of Latin. Meg’s fist clenches, cutting him off. Dean heaps abuse at her, even as Sam’s face turns bright red and his eyes start to bulge. 

Dean only stops shouting at Meg when he hears a small snatch of Latin. It’s clumsy, the tongue stuttering over the unfamiliar syllables, but fluency doesn’t matter as much as intent. Dean looks at Cas, in horror and admiration, as he spits out the exorcism. 

Meg’s head arches back at an angle which would snap a regular human’s neck. Shrieks of laughter tear out of her throat, clawing at Dean’s mind until he feels the thin threads of his sanity start to unravel. Without warning, the vice crumpling Dean’s chest eases and he sags to the ground. 

His reprieve is short lived. Even as she howls, Meg twists her fingers. Dean chokes. He tries to breathe through the pain, but his whole world has become pain. It feels like his intestines are trying to crawl out of his throat. He claws out hunks of grass and dirt, breaking nails against roots as he clings to consciousness. 

“So what is it going to be boys?” Meg rasps. Her body shakes as wisps of black curl out of her mouth. “Dealing with you three is like playing whack a mole. So what do you say? May the best demon win?” 

“Go to hell,” Sam pants. Somehow, he’s managed to get his hands on his flask of holy water. He tosses some in Meg’s face and her scream echoes through the trees. Sam’s rise to echo it as he writhes in agony. 

They’re not going to survive this fight, none of them. For every hit they inflict on Meg, she shreds their innards. Her skin is sloughing off, revealing blood and muscle underneath, the prettiness of her vessel leeching away to reveal the horror below, but it’s not enough. He can taste blood in the back of his throat, he knows that his organs are jelly, victim to Meg’s torture. There’s no way he’s walking out of this alive. 

But fuck, if he’s going to die, then he’s at least going to take this bitch with him. 

He forces his mouth to form the Latin words for the exorcism. He spits them out, along with the blood, and watches as Meg screams. The clearing smells like sulfur and blood, dank with the smell of rotting meat. If he tries, he can hear Sam’s groans mingled with Cas’ cries. 

God,  _ Cas--  _ One of his worst nightmares is coming true before his eyes. He led Cas into this nightmare, he led Cas and Sam both, and look what it’s gotten them. He tries to draw Meg’s attention his way, but it’s to no avail. They’re four doomed souls, writhing on the ground and listening to each other die. 

“You going to have enough juice to make it to the end, Dean-o?” Meg rasps. Her laugh is bloody and guttural. Her head lolls to the side so she can fix her pitch-black eyes on Dean. “Cause you’d better believe if I’m left standing, I’ll rip out Sammy’s lungs, just so you can take a peek.” 

“Fucking bitch!” Dean tries to struggle to his feet. If nothing else, then he’ll strangle her to death, wrap his fingers around her throat and squeeze until she can’t make any more smart ass remarks. He doesn’t make it more than three steps before Meg drops him. She wheezes, smoke curling out of her nostrils and steam rising from her skin. She’s dying, but not fast enough. 

“Or maybe I’ll crush your spine first,” she jeers, eyes flashing between normal and black. “Make sure that you’re still alive to watch me turn your brother and your boyfriend into little smears.” 

Her fingers twist and Dean sputters. Warm, sticky blood burbles out of his lips and down his chin. Dean tries to hold it back, tries not to give the bitch the satisfaction, but he can’t help it. He screams, loud and long, knees curling towards his chest in a futile attempt to protect himself. He’s dying, he’s being torn apart from the inside out, white explodes behind his eyes, and all he can hear is the scream--

_ “Stop!”  _

Between the screams and howls, and the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, it takes Dean a second to place the voice. It isn’t until Cas screams out for the second time, his voice shrill and wrecked, that Dean begins to fear. 

“Please.” Somehow, Cas is able to crawl forward. He’s shaking, blood dripping out of his ears, but he moves forward with hopeless intent. 

“Cas, Cas  _ don’t--”  _

Dean doesn’t know what Cas is planning but it can’t be anything good. Cas’ eyes are the kind of desperate that John’s were just before he went to deal, the kind of desperate that doesn’t care anymore. 

“Shut up Dean, the grownups are talking now.” A flick of Meg’s fingers closes his airway and Dean soundlessly gasps, fingers clawing at his throat. His eyes bulge as he croaks. Cas spares him one, anguished look before fixing his eyes on the ruin of Meg’s face. 

_ Sam,  _ Dean thinks,  _ Sam, stop him, Sam, please-- _

But all he hears from Sam is pained wheezing. 

“What are you after, Clarence?” Meg coughs and a curl of smoke falls from her lips. “I’ve gotta tell you, if you’re bargaining for the Winchesters, I don’t think they’re worth much.” 

“Your vessel’s falling apart. You’re not going to survive.” 

“Yeah, well, neither are you. Now either shit or get off the pot.” 

“I want to do a trade. You get a new vessel, one that isn’t falling apart, and the Winchesters go.” 

Dean tries to shout, to rage, to do anything in his power to scream  _ NO,  _ but he doesn’t have the air in his lungs to do so. Next to him, Sam chokes out a protest. “Cas. Cas, no. You can’t--” A flick of Meg’s fingers silences him as well. 

“And what’s in it for you?” Meg’s lip curls, like she’s tasted something delicious in the air. 

Cas swallows. His eyes look at Dean for one, eternal, second, before he looks back at Meg. “The Winchesters walk away.” 

Meg’s laugh peals through the clearing, jaw hanging open like a snake’s. “Oh, you really are an angel, aren’t you?” 

Cas holds his hands up. The dim firelight shines on his anti-possession bracelet for one moment before he wraps his fingers around it and snaps the chain. The bracelet falls to the ground, useless. Dean howls in despair, though the sound never leaves his lips. 

_ No, not Cas, please, please, NO, NOT CAS _

“Do we have a deal? A vessel for the Winchesters?” 

Cas is shaking so hard Dean can see it from feet away. He’s terrified, has to be, but he never falters, not even when Meg crawls forward to within a hair’s breadth of him. Her true face is slipping through the cracks, hellfire and brimstone reflected in her grin. 

One rotten hand curls around Cas’ jaw, pulling him close. “Oh, Clarence,” Meg purrs, licking her lips, “it’s sweet of you to bargain, but I don’t need your permission.” 

Dean tries to cry out as Meg yanks Cas forward into a bruising kiss, but he can’t. He’s a finger’s span away from passing out, black encroaching on the edges of his vision, and all he can see is Meg, her lips pressed to Cas, all he can see is Cas’ despairing final glance--

Cas pulls away gasping, hand grabbing at his chest. Meg’s body slumps bonelessly against him; Cas pushes it away with a sigh of revulsion. The air holds its breath as Cas rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. He stands gingerly, taking a tentative step forward. 

Finally, Dean is allowed the sweet relief of breathing. He almost cries in relief as oxygen floods through his body, though he doesn’t give himself much time to luxuriate in the feeling. 

He crawls forward, weak limbs refusing to support him. “Cas?” he asks, forcing his voice to work. “Cas, babe--” 

Cas laughs, a low, dark thing that shivers down Dean’s spine. Then Cas turns to face him, and Dean learns the true meaning of despair. 

Black eyes, black, black where there should be blue, cold black, he woke up next to Cas this morning and those eyes were blue, he was going to fall asleep next to Cas tonight, but now there’s just black, black,  _ black-- _

“No Cas here,” Meg says, working Cas’ jaw to get the words out. She makes Cas’ voice lighter, like wind screeching through broken glass opposed to Cas’ normal raspy growl. “Just little old me.” 

“You fucking bitch,” Dean breathes, before he forces himself to his feet and lunges. Forget everything else, he just needs to rip her out of Cas, he  _ needs _ Cas, he can’t--

One of Cas’ fingers twitches and Dean cries out as he’s jerked off his feet and sent flying. He hits the ground and doesn’t get back up. Next to him, Sam whispers an exorcism, though it sounds like he’s speaking underwater. A flick from Cas’ fingers silences him.

“Gotta say, I’m not hating this,” Meg muses, running Cas’ hands over his jaw, down his throat, to his chest, stomach, and hips. “He’s so  _ butch.  _ But then, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Dean?” She winks at Dean, manipulating Cas’ features into a facsimile of friendship. “You should hear him in here. He’s screaming.” 

“You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch, you fucking bitch.” It’s all Dean can say, the words repeated until they’re meaningless, until they’re worthless. 

“Aw, I’m not your boyfriend, don’t try to sweet talk me.” Meg moves Cas’ body like a puppet master still learning how to manipulate a new toy. “Anyway, much as it stings, I did make a deal, so here’s your freebie. Be seeing you boys.” Cas’ face splits in a smile so familiar yet so foreign that it rips Dean’s chest apart. 

“No, no,  _ wait--” _

Wind roars through the clearing, whipping at Dean’s face strong enough to tear skin. He might scream, he might not; it disappears into the howling. He can’t see, can’t hear anything beyond his own, hopeless wailing--

The wind stops, as quickly as it began. When it disappears, the only things left in the clearing are him, Sam, and the dying remnants of the fire. 

Cas is gone. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing.


	10. inmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The previous night is a blur in his mind. He’s not wholly sure how long they drove, only that the sky was just pinking when they finally came to a stop. Sam, who was the more functional of them, was in charge of getting them a room. Something in Dean recoiled at the sight of the bed, knowing that he would be falling asleep alone, but the larger part of him was too exhausted to fuss. 
> 
> He stripped off his shirt and jeans in stilted, pained motions. They were both bruised and battered, but neither of them were up to anything more than cursory first aid. From what Dean could tell, neither of them had broken bones, so he splashed some whiskey on the worst abrasions before downing a few grateful mouthfuls. Wordlessly, he passed the bottle to Sam, who did the same, before he leveled a look at him. 
> 
> “Dean,” he began. Dean looked away. If he had to look into Sam’s soulful eyes, while Sam begged him to _talk_ , then he--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings--This chapter contains non-con drug usage, a blink and you'll miss it allusion to rape, and references to violence. It's all in the back half, if you're concerned as to where it is.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cas is gone. 

Dean picks himself up off the ground. Pain floods through his body, washing out his vision in a blur of red, but he doesn’t release the whimper pushing at his lips. His limbs feel disjointed and numb, as though they’re not actually attached to his body, but are instead afterthoughts, appendages put on with shoddy craftsmanship and stuck together with nothing more than willpower and fading glue. He tastes copper and spits out blood. Next to him, he hears a low groan and turns to Sam. That’s his job, his responsibility. Take care of Sammy. 

Sam is still in one piece and breathing, which, in Winchester terms, means he falls into the realm of ‘okay’. 

“Come on, Sam,” Dean whispers, blood falling from his lips with every word. “We gotta go. We gotta get to the car, we gotta--”

“Dean,” Sam whispers, shaking off Dean’s hand as he gets to his feet. “Dean, they’ve… Dean,  _ Cas--” _

“Come on,” Dean grunts, yanking at Sam’s elbow. “We’ve got to go. Come on.” 

He manages to get Sam onto his feet. From there, he shoves his shoulder underneath Sam’s shoulder and starts stumbling forward. His mind is blank of everything except one goal: get to the car. They have to get to the car so they can get away. Once they’re away--

They have to get to the car. 

“Dean,” Sam gasps behind him, “Dean, we have to--Cas, Cas, he, he,  _ no, _ Dean we have--” 

“Shut up,” Dean says, voice void of emotion. 

“Shut up?” Sam repeats, voice rising to an incredulous pitch. “Shut up? Dean, we need to call Bobby, Ellen, Jo, call anyone they know, we need to get hunters on this so we can find her, we need to--” 

“Cas is gone! All right?” Dean whirls around, ignoring the numerous alarms which sound in his body at the abrupt movement. “He’s  _ gone  _ Sam, you understand? There’s nothing--He’s gone. Now we have to get to the fucking car, so shut up and start walking!” 

Dean starts walking. They have to get to the car. For a moment, all he hears are his steps, but then Sam’s footsteps start following him again. 

Cas is gone, and they have to get to the car.

  
  


\---

Cas is gone, and Dean can’t get out of bed. 

The previous night is a blur in his mind. He’s not wholly sure how long they drove, only that the sky was just pinking when they finally came to a stop. Sam, who was the more functional of them, was in charge of getting them a room. Something in Dean recoiled at the sight of the bed, knowing that he would be falling asleep alone, but the larger part of him was too exhausted to fuss. 

He stripped off his shirt and jeans in stilted, pained motions. They were both bruised and battered, but neither of them were up to anything more than cursory first aid. From what Dean could tell, neither of them had broken bones, so he splashed some whiskey on the worst abrasions before downing a few grateful mouthfuls. Wordlessly, he passed the bottle to Sam, who did the same, before he leveled a look at him. 

“Dean,” he began. Dean looked away. If he had to look into Sam’s soulful eyes, while Sam begged him to  _ talk,  _ then he--

“It’s late, I’m fucking tired, and I feel like shit,” he grunted. “I’m going to get some sleep.” With that, he put his back to Sam and hiked up the comforter over his head. The starchy scent of the sheets surrounded him and the blankets blocked out the light. He could hear Sam moving around the room, but even those sounds stopped after a few minutes as Sam got into bed. Even so, it was a long while before Dean was able to sleep. 

Now, the next day, Dean finds himself either unable or unwilling to get out of it. Sam goes through the normal motions of the day, showering, brushing his teeth, making a single-serve cup of coffee on the shitty coffee maker in the room. He’s always the first one awake; these sounds have become Dean’s alarm, urging him up and out of bed, but now Dean ignores them. 

Besides, even if he wanted to get up, he doesn’t know if he could. His insides still feel twisted and raw, like they’re knitting themselves back together. Every time he tries to move past a twitch of his fingers, his muscles scream in protest. Better to just stay in bed. Maybe he can fall asleep and let the rest of the world pass him by. 

Surprisingly, Sam doesn’t bother him until a few hours have passed, and then only for food. Dean groans at the smell of grease filtering through his nest of blankets. The smell, which normally would have him salivating, now only turns his stomach. 

“Dean. Come on, you should eat something.” 

He ignores Sam as long as he can. He manages about ten minutes of peace, but then he makes out a shadow reaching towards his blanket fort. The idea of being dragged out is humiliating, so Dean flips back the top layer of his blankets. “I’m not hungry,” he says, before he burrows back into his cocoon. 

That should be that. He’s addressed Sam’s concern, so Sam should be satisfied. Instead, the mattress dips as Sam sits on the edge of his bed. 

“Dean, we need to--” 

Dean tears the blanket away from his face, suddenly choking on his anger. “So help me god, if you say that we need to talk, I’ll kill you,” he growls. 

“Dean, we need to figure out what to do next! Meg has--” 

“I’m going to stop you right there, all right?” He can’t bear to hear it, not from Sam, not from anyone. He can’t bear to hear his own failure verbalized. “Now there’s some cash in my bag. Take it and pay for another night. I feel like shit, you’re not feeling a hell of a lot better, and we just need some rest.” Sam looks like he wants to say something else, most likely something soulful and probing, something to soothe his pain and heal all the broken places inside of him, so Dean makes a quick retreat back under his blankets. “I just need some damn rest.” 

  
  


\---

Cas is gone and Dean can’t sleep. 

He spends most of the afternoon trying to sleep, tossing and turning on the stiff mattress. His body protests with every movement as he gropes for an oblivion just out of reach. Boredom takes over as his brain jogs in pointless circles, but he doesn’t dare emerge to turn on the TV. Sam is lurking just outside his sanctuary, the subtle rustling of pages proof of his existence, and Dean can’t face the full force of his eyes and earnest pleas to just  _ talk.  _

Dean turns once again, grunting softly as his ribs protest the movement. He instinctively stays on one side of the mattress, his body having been conditioned over the past few months not to take up more than its fair share of space. Cas guards his space viciously and isn’t above delivering a sharp kick if he feels Dean’s encroaching too far into his territory. 

Horror rises in Dean’s throat. The blankets, which had been his refuge, suddenly turn smothering as he thrashes under their weight. Cas is gone. Cas is gone, and everything that made him good is buried under a thick fog of black. Cas is  _ gone-- _

He jerks upright, tossing aside the blankets as he gasps for air. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful that Sam doesn’t give him more than a cursory glance before he returns to his book. 

Dean wipes some of the sweat off his forehead, glaring balefully around the room. “Yeah, fuck this,” he declares, swinging his legs out of bed. His muscles tremble and threaten rebellion for a moment, but he manages to totter across the room to his bag. He pulls out the half-empty bottle of whiskey from between his shirts and clutches it to his chest. 

“Dean, are you sure you should be…” Sam trails off at the look on Dean’s face. Wisely, he decides to drop the topic. 

The first swallow is a relief. The second is medicinal. By the third, he doesn’t really taste it anymore, he’s only chasing the burn. He waits for the numbness to take over his brain, for the fog to descend, for  _ anything, something,  _ to happen so he doesn’t have to be  _ here,  _ but nothing is forthcoming. 

Cas is gone. 

And it’s his fault. 

\---

He thinks that Sam might put him to bed. He’s not sure. He knows that he finishes off the bottle of whiskey, the empty glass falling from his limp fingers to thud against the carpet. He doesn’t know what he babbles to his brother, but he can guess it’s not anything good. All he remembers is the empty ache in his chest, like the empty spot in his bed, cold where there should be another body. Dean curls around it, wishing a body there as his fingers twist in the smooth sheets. The last thing he remembers is a giant looming shadow that feels like safety and a warm hand resting on his shoulder for the briefest of moments. 

He wakes the next morning, body aching, stomach hollow, and head spinning. Nothing has changed. 

Cas is gone, and he can’t get up. 

“Dean. We need to go.” 

Sam’s voice is an irritant breaking into his bubble of grief and apathy. Dean tries to tunnel deeper into the mattress to get away from it, but Sam’s ruthless hands yank the blankets away from him, leaving him cold and bared to the room. 

“What the hell, Sam?” 

“Get up, get a shower, get dressed. We need to  _ go.”  _

“No, I feel like shit.” Dean gropes for the blankets now gathered at his feet, but Sam has already tossed them across the room. “Fuck you, Sam. Leave me alone.” 

“No, because we have to  _ go.  _ Now, seriously, get up and get into the shower. I’ll drive; you can feel like shit in the car just as well as you can in bed.” 

“Sam, I’m warning you, fuck off right now!” 

“Dammit, Dean!” 

Sam’s outburst is violent enough to cause Dean to force his body upright. His back and ribs twinge in protest. For a moment, he’s convinced he’s going to vomit all over his lap, but then, with a little effort, he manages to get himself vertical for the first time in hours. 

Sam paces around the room, hands worrying at a knife in a fit of nervous energy. “Please. Come on. We need to go.” 

“We can wait another day--”

“We’ve waited long enough.” One gigantic hand pushes Sam’s hair out of his face. “Look, I know you don’t want to think about it, but…” He bites his lip and turns in a bizarre semi-circle before he forces himself to stand still. “If Meg… She has access to everything Cas knew, which is bad enough for our aliases, but… She might be able to use Cas in order to predict where we’re going.” 

“No.” Dean’s mouth opens in an automatic denial which has no basis in fact. “Cas wouldn’t…” He trails off. What was he going to say?  _ Cas wouldn’t betray us?  _ Cas betrayed them the second he put his lips on a demon’s. 

“Fine. Just fucking fine.” 

His stomach churns when his feet hit the carpet. No food and a shitton of alcohol is a bad combination, as he discovers when he almost falls on his face after taking a few halting steps forward. Somehow, he makes it into the bathroom without breaking anything. The shower proves a little difficult, but after getting a whiff of himself, he has to acknowledge the necessity of the gesture. He stinks like sweat, fear, and cheap booze. 

He sinks into the thoughtless gestures of turning on the shower and soaping up a washcloth. He gets through a cursory washing before the memories of the previous night rise. He scrubs at his skin until it hurts, ignoring the rising desperation rising in his throat.  _ Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it,  _ but it’s all he can think about. There’s no refuge, not even when he closes his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids reminds him of the inky black eclipsing Cas’ eyes, devouring every bit of the man that he…

Dean flails at the knob of the shower. The water stops flowing and he shivers in the sudden cold. No. No. He’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about it. 

He swipes the towel angrily at his body, hissing as the rough fabric aggravates his already sensitive skin. He forces his mind to the most urgent problems raised by Sam. Cas knows their aliases, which means that Meg… 

They’ll need new badges and new cards. Bobby can help them with some of that, though… God, they’ll have to call Bobby and tell him what happened, Cas knew him as well. They’ll have to call Tara, though Tara is tough as hell and can sense out a demon at twenty paces. 

The cold air of the motel room slaps him in the face as he walks out of the bathroom. With the towel wrapped around his waist, he searches through his duffel bag. He finds jeans that don’t smell gross and a shirt that he remembers washing like a month ago. It’s good enough. 

“Come on,” Dean grunts, gathering up the meager debris that occurs from sleeping in the same motel room for two nights in a row. He stuffs everything into his bag and storms out to the car, popping the trunk to toss his duffel inside. 

The sight of Cas’ bag hits him like a sucker punch. It’s worked its way almost to the very back of the trunk, carelessly thrown in there several days prior and forgotten about until now. They were in a hurry when they left the last motel; the zipper isn’t all the way fastened on Cas’ bag. A soft blue plaid flannel sleeve pokes out from the bag. Dean tries, but he can’t remember Cas ever wearing that shirt. He wonders if Cas liked it. Grief strikes him then, so suddenly that it opens a chasm of aching in his chest. It seems so pointless to worry about, but Dean realizes then that he doesn’t know Cas’ favorite shirt. 

He slams the trunk closed, reeling away from the memories. He makes his way to the driver’s door, jerking at the handle, only for Sam to slam his giant bear paw on the door. “No,” is all he says, voice brooking no arguments. He holds out his hand for the keys, raising his eyebrows when Dean hesitates. “No offense, but you look like you’re about ready to keel over, and I’d rather you do that when you’re not driving the car.” 

Dean shoves the keys into Sam’s hands. He hopes it hurts. 

He folds himself into the passenger seat of the car, ignoring the shiver of  _ wrongness  _ skirting down his spine and watches as the motel dwindles into the distance as they drive away. 

\---

He and Sam spend three weeks on the run, trying to get lost as best they can. They call their hunter friends, let them know that Meg has a new meatsuit. Dean lets Sam handle those calls. He can’t bear to describe Cas through an outsider’s perspective. He can’t describe Cas to a hunter, knowing that the unspoken message of these calls is always  _ kill on sight.  _

“Bobby said there are summonings we can try, exorcisms that might--”

“Give it a rest.” Dean takes a defensive swig from the ever-present bottle next to him. The alcohol doesn’t burn going down nor does he notice an overall shift in his sobriety. It’s more that he needs the whiskey to maintain the same level of comfortable numbness he’s been cruising at for the past weeks. “Meg’s too smart to see through those. If she gets a summoning you bet your ass she’s telling all of her little demon buddies to show up to the place with bells on.” 

“We can do wardings to keep other demons out, we can--”

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and you can just… Just stop.” Dean gropes for the ever-present bubble of rage which always seems to hover at the back of his throat, but he comes up empty. Lately, that’s all he’s been. The whiskey helps push the feeling away, but not for long. 

Sam gets up from the bed and walks an angry circle around the room. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it a rumpled mess. When he turns back to look at Dean, his eyes are wild, lips pulled back from his teeth. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Nothing’s fucking wrong, Sammy.” 

“Like hell nothing’s wrong! It’s been three weeks and you won’t even say his name!” 

Dean’s fist clenches so tightly that his knuckles crack. “Sam, leave it.” 

“No! Because he was my friend too, and he deserves better, and you’re my brother and you’re honest to god scaring me. I can’t remember the last time I saw you without a flask by your side. You don’t sleep anymore, you pass out, and don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re not eating.” Sam plants his feet in front of Dean, lifting his chin in defiance. “We can’t keep doing this.” 

“And what else is there to do, huh Sammy?” Dean laughs but it’s bitter and painful. He deliberately sets the bottle aside, like a slap in the face, and looks at Sam. “Okay, what do you want me to do? You want me to march out there and scream at the top of my lungs until Meg shows up? You want me to rip her out of Cas? And you think everything’s going to be hunky-dory if we do that? Sam, you know how demons treat their meatsuits. They leave them rode hard and put up wet. And you think Meg’s going to be sweet to him? She’ll torture him just for the hell of it now that she knows…” There are hundreds of memories for Meg to choose from which describe exactly what Castiel is to the Winchesters. “It’s no use. Cas is…” He almost chokes on the words but he forces them out. “Cas is gone. He was from the second that bitch took over.” 

He repeats the words to himself every morning and every night. Every time Cas’ face wanders across his mind, he forces himself to taste the bitter truth.  _ Cas is gone.  _

“What the hell are we supposed to do? It was hard enough finding Meg when she didn’t know everything about us. Now she has…” He drops his head in his hands. “I’m so pissed,” he mutters. “I’m so fucking pissed all the time.” 

He clenches his fingers in his hair, relishing the sting of pain in his scalp. “I just don’t understand why he would do it. I don’t…” Heat prickles behind his eyes and at the bridge of his nose. Dean blinks, trying to clear his hazy vision. He pulls on his hair to try and mitigate the sting in his eyes. “I don’t understand  _ why _ he did it.” 

Sam’s silence reeks of compassion. Dean doesn’t dare look at him. 

Finally, when each of Dean’s nerves are screaming, Sam finally says, “Do you really not understand why?” 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


The room is almost uncomfortably warm. Sweat beads along his hairline, pooling at the small of his back. He twists his face in discomfort, rolling onto his back in an attempt to find a cooler spot on the mattress. 

His fingers brush against skin, and he opens his eyes. 

“Hi,” Dean says, lips curving in a small smile. A single fingertip traces down his chest to his stomach, and he twists away. His skin is already sticky with sweat, and as pleasant as Dean’s touch is, he doesn’t want to increase the heat boiling just underneath the surface. “I thought you were going to sleep the day away.” 

“The thought had occurred to me,” he murmurs. He rests his head on the crook of his elbow, allowing his eyes to play over Dean’s skin, from the dark lines of his tattoo inked into his skin, down to the fine blond hairs on his chest. “What’s wrong with the air conditioner? It’s sweltering in here.” 

Dean shrugs, looking over his shoulder at the unassuming, yet menacing, piece of machinery. “I don’t know. I guess I could take a look.” 

He watches with appreciation as Dean rolls out of bed. The gauzy curtains of the motel window filter out most of the morning light, but enough shines through to light Dean’s skin with a soft glow. Dean squats next to the air conditioner, fiddling with several knobs. He slaps his palm against the side of it and gets nothing more than an angry grinding noise for his troubles. 

“No joy. I think we’re going to have to call maintenance.” 

“That’s fine,” he says, though it’s really not. He’s thinking about getting out of bed and into a cold shower; the heat is becoming almost unbearable. He kicks off the sheet covering his lower body, and it only alleviates his suffering a minimal amount. 

Dean turns around and this time it’s his turn to be eyed with appreciation. He stretches and goes so far as to spread his legs. It’s not quite an invitation, but Dean seems to take it as such. 

“Looking good sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. He stalks back to the bed, eyes dark and hungry. Within seconds, Dean is on top of him, legs clamped to either side of his ribs. He can’t help but shiver as he watches the dark circles of Dean’s pupils take over the forest green of his irises. 

When Dean’s hand clamps over his wrist, it doesn’t raise any alarms. He’s too busy looking into Dean’s eyes, watching the curve of his lower lip, and the flick of his tongue. Despite the almost overwhelming heat of the room, arousal pools in his belly. 

It’s not until he feels the pinching of his skin that a flicker of alarm even bothers to sound through his blood. His head lolls over to the side, curious as to what Dean’s doing. Cold terror seizes him as his eyes take in the impossible sight. 

Dean is poised above him. His superior weight keeps him a prisoner while he maintains a punishing grip on his wrist. A needle is poised above his skin, its sharp edges gleaming with a sinister light. He recognizes the needle; he knows what is held within. 

Each and every one of his worst nightmares flares to life in that moment as the needle punctures skin. Dean pushes the plunger, a cruel, maniac grin stretching his lips into something grotesque. “Please, don’t, Dean, stop, no,  _ Dean!”  _

Dean looks at him and his eyes are black. 

Fear seizes him, warring with the sheer bliss beginning to fog the edges of his brain. He fights against that feeling, clenching his teeth to stave it away as he jerks and bucks underneath Dean. “Dean, stop it, stop it, Dean,  _ no--”  _

“Oh, stop your whining Clarence,” Dean drawls. Dean kisses him, forcing his lips open to slip his tongue inside. He tastes like sulfur and brimstone. 

When he gags, Dean draws back, laughing. “What’s wrong, angel? You don’t want to play?” 

Castiel fights and Castiel  _ screams--- _

  
  


\---

  
  


Most of the time, Meg keeps him under. 

It’s a relief. 

He’s not exactly sure where he  _ goes  _ when he’s not conscious, but it’s a mercy not to  _ be. _ Not to see the dozens of atrocities Meg commits. Not to feel the viscous warmth of blood soaking over his fingers, not to know, intimately, the coppery taste of it spilling over his tongue. 

He knows the horrors which Meg inflicts with his body, how she uses his fingers and other parts to rip and tear, how human flesh is no match for the cruelty housed within him. She speaks with his voice and she moves his hands, and it’s a blessing when he can slip away into the darkness. 

Sometimes, she pulls him up to witness. She laughs as she digs a knife into a screaming body, tosses his head back as blood splashes over their face. She feels it, but he feels it too, when the body underneath them stops squirming. It’s his hands that trace over the once familiar planes of his face, turning his jaw to make sure he can see the full horror she’s created. 

“You see that?” His voice, but he would never say these words, never have malice pouring out of him like a fountain. “Take a good look, Cas. This is what your Winchesters are going to look like when I’m through with them. I’m going to tear them apart, limb from limb, and the last thing they see is going to be your smiling face.” 

She drags a hand down his chest and stomach to cup his groin. “Hey, maybe before we gut him, we’ll give Dean get one last ride, huh? Believe me when I say that I’ve been  _ dying  _ to get my hands on him.” She gropes him with punishing force, snickering at his small, unheard wail of pain. “I never knew Dean-o was so good at taking it up the ass. Love to see if he’d bend and spread them now that you’re sporting these pretty blacks instead of those baby blues.” 

**_stay away from him, you stay away, stay away STAY AWAY_ **

“Oh honey, if you wanted me to stay away, then you never should have invited me in.” 

She digs their fingers into all too easily torn flesh and laughs as Castiel screams. 

  
  


\---

Having no point of reference, Castiel doesn’t know exactly what he thought it would be like, having a demon inside him. 

If he’d thought about it, he would have assumed it was like his worst moments, when all of his rational thoughts left and the only desire coursing through him was for his next high. Those times when he  _ knew  _ what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d thought he was possessed sometimes, his brain making horrible decisions that he knew he’d never make if he were under his own power. 

Now he sees that, for all its horrors, he was just a child playing at a nightmare. 

From the second he feels her, Meg  _ is  _ him. Castiel Novak ceases to be, bundled into a little corner of his own mind, harmless and hopeless. He’s a passenger, locked away from the rest of the world as a demon uses his face for all manner of atrocities. 

She drags him up to the surface when she brands him. He feels every bit of that agony, the hot metal pressing into his skin, burning through layers of flesh. He smells the sickening cooking meat stench as he watches his skin peel away from the white-hot metal. Inside his mind, he howls, but no sounds escape him, save for Meg’s shaky laugh. 

“It’s a binding sigil,” she explains, ignoring his agony and pressing the metal to his skin until the glow fades. Only then does she take the metal away. It falls to the ground with an empty clatter, and a fresh wave of pain sweeps over him as she douses his arm in ice-cold water. “It keeps me locked in this hot body of yours. As long as this bad boy’s on your arm, not even an exorcism can yank me out.” 

Castiel understands the spaces between the words. Without an exorcism, Meg isn’t leaving his body. Which means the only way Meg is leaving is if someone… 

Meg gleefully pulls up the vivid memory of how the knife felt sliding into Michael’s body. How electricity and brimstone had flashed in his eyes, the otherworldly scream as the thing piloting his body died. 

Meg chuckles at the direction his thoughts have taken. “Yep,” she says, twisting his voice around into something saccharine sweet, “the only way to stop me now is to kill me, and as long as I’m in here, the Winchesters will think twice about it.” 

**_no no dean will stop it, dean won’t let you, dean will--_ **

Meg rummages carelessly through his memories, like a girl searching through her purse. She discards several before she finds one she likes. 

Just a morning. He and Dean had managed to score their own room and had spent the previous night christening not only the bed, but also the bathroom counter and shower. Dean’s shouts had echoed off the tile as Castiel had swallowed him down to the root and sucked until Dean was coming down his throat. They’d fallen asleep trading lazy kisses, Dean’s hand roaming over his chest until their eyelids became too heavy to hold open. 

Just a morning. He wakes to the feel of Dean’s fingers carding through his hair, tugging gently at the end. Castiel makes a small noise in the back of his throat, half protest at being awoken and half pleasure at the sensations rolling through his body. He opens an eye to see Dean smiling down at him. The corners of his eyes are crinkled. His skin almost glows in the faint morning light. 

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever seen. 

“Morning,” Castiel finally rasps, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, despite the early hour. 

“Hey you,” Dean whispers, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. 

Meg freezes the memory there, and Castiel finds himself unable to stifle his cry of loss. For a second, he was  _ there,  _ he was with Dean, everything was  _ perfect-- _

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that good old Dean is jonesing to put a knife in your gut anytime soon.” 

Castiel curls up in the back of his mind and wishes desperately for oblivion. 

\---

His only moment of hope comes later. 

Time ceases to have meaning when he’s not in control of his own body. It could be months, it could be years since Meg first crawled inside him. He’s not sure of how long he’s been possessed, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Meg can’t find the Winchesters. 

He doesn’t have access to Meg’s thoughts and feelings, but it’s inevitable that there’s some overlap, especially when she’s directly interacting with him. 

She sweeps over his captive mind like a hurricane, bowling him over. There’s no hope of resistance. Her anger and hatred and contempt wash over him, but there’s a new flavor there: frustration. 

The hope this realization brings is the only thing which keeps him afloat as Meg tears through his memories. She reminds him of a toddler, tearing apart a room for a favorite toy, except this is his very sense of self shredded by her rage. Dozens of images flash before him, too many to parse: Dean’s grin, Sam’s calm exterior. Michael’s contempt. The almost faded faces of his parents. The face of the first boy he ever kissed. The first high he ever got, smoking behind the high school during study hall. The first time the needle pierced his flesh. Dean’s hands. 

“Where the fuck are they?” Meg growls, once she’s surrounded by the tattered remnants of his mind, and with nothing to show for her troubles. “You little insect, you know where they’re hiding, so where the fuck are they?” 

He gathers the pieces of himself together, painfully, until he has enough to remember that he is Castiel. A moment later, hateful mirth floods through his mind. 

**_never i’ll never tell you where they are, you can go right to hell, dean is going to kill you and the last thing i’m going to do is laugh_ **

“Yeah, well, laugh while you can,” Meg sneers. “We meet up with the Winchesters again, it’s not going to end up well for you.” 

Castiel knows this. He knows that any victory for the Winchesters ends with his dead body. 

But the longer he spends locked away in his own mind, the less he cares. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	11. penitents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean exists. 
> 
> His days bleed together in a never ending cycle. Wake up, drive, hunt. Wake up, interview, hunt. Eventually the ache in his chest fades, to be replaced with nothing. A vast chasm of apathy opens in his chest, and nothing he tries, not hunting, not booze, not even flirting with the pretty waitress at the diner can fill it. 
> 
> Sam says nothing, but Dean knows he’s worried. He can barely move without a long, soulful look following him. His brother’s face is caught in a mournful pout. If Sam looks any more plaintive, violin strings will start playing whenever he opens his mouth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean exists. 

His days bleed together in a never ending cycle. Wake up, drive, hunt. Wake up, interview, hunt. Eventually the ache in his chest fades, to be replaced with nothing. A vast chasm of apathy opens in his chest, and nothing he tries, not hunting, not booze, not even flirting with the pretty waitress at the diner can fill it. 

Sam says nothing, but Dean knows he’s worried. He can barely move without a long, soulful look following him. His brother’s face is caught in a mournful pout. If Sam looks any more plaintive, violin strings will start playing whenever he opens his mouth. 

Dean’s sick of it. So what if Cas opened himself up to a demon? So what if he’s gone? They’ve lost people before; hell, they lost  _ Dad.  _ Losing someone who they’ve known for less than a year is sad, but it’s not the huge trauma that Sam is making it out to be. 

Dean’s fine. He takes out a nest of vampires and shows Sam just how fine he is. 

He loses himself in the repetitive motions of the fight, muscles falling into a pattern, sinew and bone splitting underneath strength and a keenly honed machete. He takes a hit to the ribs, but the pain barely registers. Blood spatters over his face. It coats his fingers and runs down his wrists, staining the cuffs of his jacket. 

He only stops when he realizes there’s nothing left to kill. His machete dangles from limp fingers. Blood drips slowly from the blade to puddle in a small pool on the ground. Dean’s chest heaves as he looks around him with wild eyes. He half expects a vampire to come rushing at him. He half wants one to. There’s something vicious and violent swirling in his chest and it craves the sight of blood. It’s not enough, hunting the nest. He gets the feeling that he could slaughter twenty vampires and it wouldn’t be enough. 

“Dean.” Sam’s quiet voice brings him hurtling back to reality. Reflexively, his fingers tighten on the hilt of the machete. “Dean, it’s done.” 

Dean releases a shaky sigh. With difficulty, he drags his thoughts back in line and forces himself to focus on the job. He and Sam need to get upstairs and wash as much blood off of themselves as they can. Then they need to get in the Impala and drive away. Small, easily defined tasks. He can do those. 

Sam doesn’t question him until they’re settled in their room. Dean lays on his back and stares at the ceiling. He tucks the comforter up underneath his armpits and waits for sleep to come. He’s as comfortable as he ever gets in bed these days, which is to say, not very. He sleeps in his jeans and boots and never fully relaxes, not anymore. 

“So, back there in the nest,” Sam begins, before pausing, as if he’s searching for the correct words. 

“Leave it,” Dean orders. He closes his eyes to the water-stained ceiling and slows his breath into the regularity of sleep. 

“Dean, we need to--” 

“No, the hell we don’t,” Dean growls. Since obviously no sleep is forthcoming in the immediate future, he rolls over onto his side to face Sam. “What we need is to get some damn sleep. I don't know about you, but I need at least four hours a night.” 

“Dean, what the hell’s going on with you?”

Sam’s question hits harder than it should, burrowing past his defenses and straight into the rotten, seething core of him. It’s like throwing gasoline on a fire, inflaming his already conflicted emotions. 

“Nothing.” The word barely makes it out through his clenched jaw. “Just leave me alone, all right Sam?” 

An explosive breath bursts out of Sam’s nostrils, but he says nothing. For one blessed moment, Dean thinks that his brother is going to leave him alone, but he’s never been that lucky. 

“I’m just worried about you,” Sam says, so quietly that if Dean wanted to, he could pretend he never heard it. 

Dean does just that. 

  
  


\---

Several weeks later, in another motel room in another city, Dean wakes to the soft, fervent sound of Sam cursing. 

He blinks himself awake, forcing lucidity into his brain as fast as it will go. Sam doesn’t usually curse with that kind of fluency or fervor unless there’s blood and lots of it. Strange, for him to be doing so this early in the morning. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean slurs. He stumbles out of bed, head spinning as his body moves too fast for his flummoxed brain. 

Sam jerks his head away from his computer screen, a guilty gleam in his eyes. “Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Go back to sleep; we don’t have anywhere to be.” 

Dean ponders that for a whole two seconds before he decides he smells bullshit. He nods, pursing his lips. He waits long enough for Sam’s attention to flicker, then he strikes. Sam squawks indignantly, his long limbs flailing in protest, but Dean manages to yank his laptop away from him. Carrying his prize over to the bed, Dean ignores his brother’s shouts. 

“Dean, seriously, give it back, that’s not funny!” 

“What, you got some freaky porn on here you don’t want me finding?” Dean asks. He glances down at the screen. Disappointment flickers. Sam’s email looks up at him, so awfully mundane that it makes him want to cry, at least until he sees what exactly Sam was looking at. A single black and white, grainy video is enclosed in the email. Dean’s interest piques when he sees the sender. 

“Why is  _ Bobby _ sending you porn?” 

Sam looms over him. “Seriously Dean, it’s not funny when you grab my shit, now give it back.” 

Dean waves him off with a careless hand. “No, I really want to see what kind of embarrassing shit you’re into.” He notices, with vague interest, that this email is the latest in a string of emails, all from Bobby. Weird. 

Just to piss Sam off, he plays the video. Almost immediately, his hopes are disappointed. It’s nothing but security footage, most likely from a gas station if the aisles and shelves are anything to judge by. Definitely not something to get the blood pumping. 

“What, Bobby send you research for a case? Gotta say, it seems a little G-rated to me.” Dean looks up from the screen to see Sam’s face. More than the fact that Dean stole his laptop, there’s something troubled there. Dean’s grin fades. 

“Just...watch,” Sam says. His voice is small and guilty. Dean turns his eyes back to the screen, unease settling over him like an all too familiar coat. 

Two customers venture in and out of the camera’s view without any incident. Dean watches, while he waits for the other shoe to drop. 

It careens to earth with all the gentleness and subtlety of an anvil when he sees the next person walk into the camera’s view. His stomach drops like he missed the last step, and he shoves a knuckle into his mouth to stop the torrent of curses from escaping. 

He spent several months watching exactly how that body moved. He’s intimately acquainted with all of its nuances. Even though Meg puppets it differently, it would take an act of God for him to forget Cas. 

He watches Cas as he swaggers up to the counter. Far from Cas’ usual wardrobe, Meg’s dressed him in nothing more than jeans and a tight black t-shirt. It leaves Cas’ whole forearm exposed, so that when Cas turns, Dean can see the ugly wound marring his skin. 

His stomach churns and nausea presses up his throat. A binding sigil. The bitch sealed herself in. 

Seething anger mingles with hope so vicious it’s almost painful. Meg put the binding sigil on Cas’ skin, which means she doesn’t want to be ripped out of Cas. If she wants to stay inside Cas that badly, it can only mean that Cas is still alive. It means that Meg is using Cas as a hostage against him, but it’s more than Dean could have hoped for. 

All hope withers away when Cas turns to face the camera. Meg pulls Cas’ mouth into a grin which is a parody of his soft, crooked smile. He winks broadly, the gesture so hyperbolic that Dean knows it was intended to be picked up by the camera. 

His eyes are pure black. 

Dread wells up in Dean as he watches Cas move closer to the counter. His left hand, the one closest to the camera, drums an irregular beat against his thigh. His right hand is tucked close to his body, out of sight. The clerk, an exhausted looking, middle-aged woman, lifts her head and says something to Cas. When Cas doesn’t react, she repeats herself, gesturing around at the store. 

It happens so fast that the shoddy security camera has trouble capturing it. Dean has to rewind the footage several times before his brain puts the events together in a clear picture. 

Cas’ hand shoots forward, viper-quick, wrist flicking in an almost imperceptible move. The woman lurches backward, hands clutching at her throat. Dean winces as he sees the dark splatters on the counter and the liquid gushing over her fingers. 

It’s over in seconds. The woman falls to the ground behind the counter, out of the camera’s range, and Cas turns back towards the camera. Dean struggles to hold himself together as he stares into those black eyes. They seem so large that he wonders why they don’t take up the whole screen. 

Cas puts two bloody fingers to his lips, smears them around until the lower half of his face is a dark mess. Then he blows a kiss towards the camera. 

Without warning, the feed cuts out into a fuzz of static. Dean reels back from the screen as though he’s been shot, his eyes already seeking out Sam. “What the hell?” he spits. 

He knows it’s not Sam’s fault (he can’t escape the insidious voice slithering through his head at all hours of the day and night whispering to him exactly who’s to blame), but his rage is bubbling over and he needs an outlet. Sam is just the unfortunate SOB caught in the line of fire. 

“What the hell is this?” he snarls, gesturing wildly toward the computer. Thankfully, the screen’s gone black, so he’s not forced to confront the awful truth. 

“Dean, I was going--”

“You were going to what? Keep lying to me? How many of these are there?” 

Sam’s face twists as he looks away from Dean. “This was the fifth one.” 

Dean takes a step backward. “Wow. Five. Five of  _ these,”  _ he gestures with disgust towards the computer, “and you weren’t going to tell me, until what? She took out a whole supermarket instead of a measly clerk?” 

“What would you have done?” Sam’s own temper is starting to spark, his jaw tensing and fingers clenching and releasing at his sides. “Huh? Run off half-cocked, no plan? Dean, that’s what gets us into these messes in the first place!”

Dean freezes, hearing the unspoken accustation underneath Sam’s words. “You wanted to go out there that night,” he says, voice deadly and dangerous. “That stupid stakeout was  _ your  _ idea,  _ you _ were the one who wanted to be out in the woods.  _ I _ wanted to stay back at the motel!” 

Shock and pain flash over Sam’s face. He stalks forward, the entire bulk of him, fists clenched at his side. “What are you saying?” he asks. Each word vibrates with emotion as it leaves his mouth. “Huh? If you’ve got something to say, then fucking say it, Dean!” 

Dean clamps his jaw shut, stubbornly turning away. It would be so easy to open his mouth and let the poison spew forth, to get rid of some of this vitriol clogging at his throat and stomach, but he can’t. He can’t. He already lost… He can’t risk losing Sam. 

Sam, however, doesn’t stop. “No, don’t stop now! You don’t get to say something like that and then shut down!” He pushes at Dean’s shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble backwards a few steps. “Fucking say it!”

There’s a raw edge of pain in Sam’s voice, one which Dean should pay attention to. If he were in his right mind, then he would realize that Sam is just using him to punish himself, that every time he’s woken up in the past few weeks, Sam has already been awake, that Sam is going on more and longer runs, that Sam’s lost weight over the past few weeks. But Dean’s not in his right mind, he’s an animal, hurt, wounded, and backed into a corner, and Sam is the one who put him there. 

“Say it!” Sam says, pushing him again. Dean snaps. 

“You wanted to be there! If you’d just listened to me, then he wouldn’t have been in that stupid fucking clearing to begin with!” 

Though he had to be expecting it, Sam reels back as though he’s been punched. He takes a few steps back from Dean, panting like he’s just finished a marathon. His upper lip curls. For a moment, Dean’s convinced that Sam is going to deck him. 

Sam shakes. His hand goes up to rake through his hair before he lowers it. His eyes spit pure hatred at Dean. “Fuck you,” he says, clearly enough that Dean feels the contempt dripping off every syllable. Sam paces, fury in each of his tightly coiled motions. “It wasn’t my fault!” he finally bellows. Dean feels for anyone in the rooms next to them; they’re going to get quite a show. 

Desperation gleams in Sam’s eyes; Dean ignores it. “It was a damn trap. If it wasn’t that town, then it would have been another, and if it hadn’t been that town, then it would have been another. It was a  _ trap,  _ and you walked into it, the same as I did!” 

Though he couldn’t have meant to, Sam’s words lance into Dean’s heart, right at the crooked, black core of him. They hook into it and dig out the ugly, rancid truth which Dean has been alternatively clinging to and hiding for the past weeks, the knowledge which has kept him awake for nights on end, the certainty which has sent him stumbling for the toilet and diving into the bottom of every bottle he can find. 

“You think I don’t know that!” Dean roars. He imagines putting his fist into Sam’s face, imagines hitting him until blood spurts, until he can run away from this feeling, until he can escape the horror simmering inside himself. 

He vomits it out and the words leave him like pus pouring from a wound. 

“You think I don’t know that it’s my fault?!” 

Without self-loathing and guilt to hold him up, he’s empty and hollow. He almost crumples to his knees before he decides that doing so would be overly dramatic. 

He repeats the words again, just to feel how they scrape at him on their way out. 

“It’s my fault he was there. I was the one who took the case in the first place.” He’s almost, but not quite, at the crux of the problem. “Sam, it’s my fault.” 

He staggers backward. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and save him from a swift fall on his ass. He sits heavily down on the bed, heart twisting. “It’s my fault,” he repeats, hands clenching uselessly between his knees. “I knew…” His stomach cramps with the memory of that morning, when Dean was desperately trying to talk Cas out of coming with them. He should have tried harder. He was selfish, desperate, weak, pathetic. And he got Cas as good as killed. 

“Dammit!” Dean strikes out with one convulsive movement. His palm hits a lamp, which flies off of the nightstand and hits the ground. It shatters into several pieces. The destruction isn’t nearly as satisfying as Dean hoped. He stares at the pieces of the lamp and thinks about the gas station clerk bleeding out on a filthy floor. He thinks of Cas that morning in the police station, the strength and gentleness of his hands as he touched Dean. He thinks of that last look Cas gave him, anguished and yet so secure in his decision. 

Cas made that decision to save him. 

The lamp broke into four larger pieces and countless, smaller pieces. Some of them are so small that there’s no hope of ever fitting them back together. 

Dean breaks everything he touches. 

“It’s my fault,” he repeats, staring down at the lamp. “It’s my fault.” 

  
  


\---

Several hours pass before Dean can bear to look at the videos. Sam still eyes him like he’s not entirely sure he’s not going to fling himself into the deep end, which is fair. Dean feels halfway there already. 

Dean forces himself to watch all the videos, though there’s little variation in content. They all feature different gas stations, but the formula is always the same. Cas flashes black eyes and a smile at the camera before he slaughters whoever is unlucky enough to be in his path. 

By the end, Dean is numb, or at least trying to be. He tries to pretend like it’s someone else’s body, pretends like he’s an outside observer, but none of it works. He can’t reconcile his memory of Cas with this monster. 

“Turn it off,” he says, turning away as Meg makes her signature move: blowing a kiss towards the camera just before the feed cuts out. He swallows hard, tasting bile at the back of his throat. 

“Ok, so here’s the thing,” Sam begins, once he’s satisfied Dean isn’t going to have another screaming fit. “Bobby caught wind of the first video from the hunter network. It picks up any gossip about demons and sends it straight to him. Jody Mills told him about the second one.” 

A sharp spike of horror thrills through Dean. “Jody Mills. Please tell me that she got promoted to somewhere like Chicago.” 

Sam’s frown says everything. “Nope. She’s still working in Sioux Falls.” 

Dean swears, lowly and viciously. “You’ve got to tell Bobby to get the hell out of there. He needs to go to Rufus’, anywhere this bitch doesn’t know about.” 

“Don’t kill the messenger, but it gets better.” Sam bites his lip before continuing. “These videos are from Palo Alto, California, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Lawrence, Kansas, Cicero, Indiana, and this last one is from Pontiac, Illinois. The first three I get--California for me, Sioux Falls for Bobby, and Lawrence for the both of us, but what the hell’s in Cicero or Pontiac?” 

“Pontiac, Illinois,” Dean murmurs, remembering Castiel’s desperate confession in a motel room. “That’s where Cas is from, he did all of his business out of that town. But Cicero…” Adrenaline spikes through him and he jolts forward. “Lisa.” 

It takes Sam a moment, then his eyes widen. “Yoga Lisa?” 

Dean bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. “That bitch. That fucking bitch.” 

Lisa had come up once in conversation, after Cas had significantly overestimated Dean’s flexibility. The conversation hadn’t been long. It had just covered that Dean had been working a job in Cicero, Indiana, that he’d met Lisa Braeden, who then introduced him to the bendiest weekend of his life. The conversation had lagged somewhat after that point, as Cas had proceeded to fuck him into the mattress with uncommon ferocity. Dean had gripped the headboard and taken it, hiding his grin in the pillow. 

One mention was all it took to put her life in danger. Fuck, Dean really does ruin everyone. 

“I’ve got to call her, I’ve got to tell her to get out, fuck Sam, she’s got a  _ kid--” _

“I wouldn’t panic. Bobby’s still in Sioux Falls, and he said that nothing’s happened. No surge in demon activity, no threats, nothing.” 

“Fucking idiot,” Dean swear, though he knows, if he were in Bobby’s shoes, he would do the exact same thing. “But that’s Bobby. He knows how to deal with this shit. Lisa…” Lisa was one halcyon weekend in a life filled with horror and bloodshed. “She didn’t sign up for this shit.” 

“It’s a power play,” Sam says miserably. “Meg wants us to know that she knows all of our weak spots. She wants…” 

He doesn’t have to continue. Dean already understands the exquisite torture Meg has concocted. That she showed up in Palo Alto and Lawrence is no surprise; the Winchester’s ties to both places are known. Sioux Falls isn’t a shock, Bobby’s ties to the Winchesters are well known, and Meg’s paid a visit or two to Bobby back in the day. But Pontiac and Cicero...those are deliberate digs, meant to hurt. Those are Meg taunting them and using Cas’ body and memories to do it. 

“I want her dead,” he whispers, clenching his fist so hard that his fingernails cut tiny half-moon slices in his palms. “Sam, I want her dead, I want to kill her, I want--”

His phone’s shrill ring stops his tirade. Silently cursing the terrible timing, Dean punches at the screen. “Yeah?” he snaps. 

There’s a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, where the only audible sound is the quiet rasp of breath. Dean’s patience, never at a premium, is already shot and he’s ready to end the call when there’s a quiet hum and then--

“Hello, Dean.” 

Dean instinctively recoils. A full body shudder rolls through him. He’s gasping and gagging, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that Sam’s plucked the phone from his fingers. “Hello?” Sam asks, more cautiously than Dean, though that doesn’t save him. Dean sees his face pale and his throat work in quick convulsions. Sam gets himself under control, jaw setting as he asks, “What do you want?” 

He listens then looks at Dean. “No,” Sam says, fingers clutching the phone to his ear. “No, I’m not going to--” Rage darkens Sam’s face and once again he looks at Dean. He shakes his head, a reflexive denial, before he releases his breath in a long, slow exhale. 

“Don’t,” Dean says, already guessing what Meg’s demand was. “Sam, don’t--”

Sam lays the phone on the table and presses the speaker button. Cas’ voice rolls through the room almost immediately after. 

“Dean? You there?” 

“Fuck off,” Dean manages to choke out. He’s shaking, barely holding it together. The only reason he’s not screaming and cursing and tearing himself apart is the knowledge that Meg is listening to his every breath and judging how to use it against him. He won’t give the bitch the satisfaction. 

“Oh Dean, don’t be like that. I know you’ve been wanting to talk to your boyfriend again.” 

“What do you want?” Sam asks, before Dean can say something potentially disastrous. 

“Can I not just call to catch up?” Meg manipulates Cas’ voice into something irreverent and malicious. Each word is like sandpaper against his already raw heart. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, going back to all your old haunts…” 

Dean opens his mouth but a sharp jerk of Sam’s head stops him from speaking. “What do you want?” 

Meg sighs, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “And you used to be so interesting, Sam. Fine. You know what I want--your heads on a plate. But if you don’t want to play, well… You saw where I’d been visiting.” 

The threat hangs heavy over Dean’s head. There are people in those towns that he cares about--Bobby, Jody, Lisa… They don’t deserve this. 

“You know I’m going to kill you,” he says, before Sam can stop him. “I swear to god, I’m going to rip you apart and send you down to wherever you evil sons of bitches go in pieces.” 

“You sure about that? You think about who else I’ve got in here with me?” There’s a sneer in Meg’s voice. It’s a warning, telling him to back off, but Dean doesn’t heed it. He’s ready for almost any form of torture, but he isn’t prepared for the sound of Cas’ voice, his  _ real  _ voice to rasp through the speakers of his phone. 

“Dean?” 

Dean lurches forward, his face hovering over the phone, like if he just tried hard enough he could bend the laws of physics and reach through the lines. “Cas? Castiel?” 

“Dean, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Shut up,” Dean says thickly, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, “shut up, we’re going to get you out Cas, you’re going to be okay--”

“Dean, please don’t come, you can’t, she’s going to--”

Even through the phone, Dean hears the moment when Cas is yanked away. It’s more like an absence of pressure, all the air fleeing from a room, leaving him gasping and his ears ringing. Even though it’s pointless, his fingers still reach out and ghost across the phone screen, chasing the memory of Cas. 

“Don’t forget,” Meg says, Cas’ voice turning hard and flat at the edges. “If you want to kill me, then you’re going to kill Lover Boy too.” 

Dean trembles, fury coursing through his blood and pounding in his ears. “I’m going to end you,” he repeats, each word clear. 

Meg’s laugh peals out of Cas’ mouth, wild and desperate. “Be seeing you soon, Dean,” she says, and then the call goes dead. 

Dean stares at the phone for several long seconds. He’s shaking, desperate to find an outlet. His instincts scream to tear the room apart, but that’s not going to help Cas. Sam also looks at the phone, but instead of frantic, his expression is calculating. 

Normally Dean loves that his brother can take a step back and look at almost any situation logically, but now that trait scratches against him, like a grain of sand caught between his skin and clothes. How  _ dare  _ he not look as though his soul is being torn apart, how  _ dare  _ he be able to sit there calmly? 

“She’s losing it,” Sam finally says, looking up at Dean. His eyes are earnest, a spark gleaming in their depths. 

“What the hell do you mean?”

“When Bobby started sending me the videos, I wondered, but now…” Sam takes a deep breath and tries to reign in his obvious excitement. “Look, what’s the point in calling us? Or, for that matter, in visiting all of our old haunts? She got what she wanted. A vessel that ensures we’re never going to hurt her. Not to mention she knows exactly what it’s doing to us. To you.” To Sam’s credit, he looks abashed at saying it, but he continues on quickly before Dean can interrupt him, “And now she’s trying to get us to come after her? Dean, I think she’s starting to crack.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, slinging himself back in his chair. He can’t stop his arms from folding petulantly across his chest. “So now I put an  _ insane  _ demon in Cas. Fucking wonderful.” 

He wishes he could forget Cas’ frantic apology stretching through the phone lines,  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry,  _ but that’s the only thought thundering through his brain. It’s the first time Cas has interacted with the real world in weeks, and he uses his scant seconds to apologize to Dean. 

Christ, when Dean sets out to ruin someone, he doesn’t do things halfway. 

“Dean, this is a good thing. It means that she’s going to make a mistake.” 

“Yeah, or it means that she’ll just get bored and trash her new digs before she fucks out of him. I don’t…” Dean runs his hand over the back of his neck and digs his fingernails into the soft skin. The tiny pinpricks of pain center him and bring his mind back into heel. “This doesn’t have a good ending, Sam.” 

He’d told Cas, from the very beginning. Someone gets a demon in them, you might as well count that person as dead. It makes it easier in the long run. 

Sam looks like he wants to argue. Dean raises his hand to forestall any of it. He’s not strong enough with it, can’t deal with his brother arguing hope, and Cas’ apologizing, and the crushing weight of his failure.

“Look, it’s not going to end well, so all we can do is end it fast.” The words taste like ash in Dean’s mouth, but he forces them out anyway. “Tomorrow, we can call Bobby and ask him for ways to track a demon. Maybe the Roadhouse has some hints or something. We just…I can’t do this anymore, Sam.” 

Dean pushes away from the table. He yanks his jacket off of the bed, the keys to the Impala already jangling in his pockets. “I’m going out,” he says, offering nothing more. The door slams behind him. If Sam tries to stop him, then Dean doesn’t hear it. 

He slings himself into the driver’s seat of the Impala, breathing in her familiar scent of oil and leather. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths and then a few more when the first don’t do the trick. 

“Goddamnit,” he finally sighs. At that, the wall he’s been keeping up in his head crumbles and he feels the hot sting of tears rolling down his nose, giant fat things that drip onto the steering wheel and his jeans. “God, oh god, fuck, goddammit--” 

He ends up sobbing like he hasn’t since he was a child and Dad gave him a slap upside the head and said  _ Get yourself together Dean, don’t be a pussy. You don’t want to upset Sam, do you?  _ He’d sniffled, shook his head, and pulled himself together, stiff upper lip, soldier on, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but Dad isn't here and what doesn’t kill him is going to kill the man that he… That he…

“Fuck,” Dean chokes out, rocking back and forth against the unyielding surface of the Impala. “Oh god, oh fuck.” 

He stays out there for hours, long enough for his joints to stiffen and his fingers to turn cold and numb. When he finally comes looking for him, Sam has the decency not to comment on his red-rimmed eyes or how much Dean leans against him as they make their way back to the motel room. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Michael’s voice echoes through his mind. 

_ Here. You either come out clean or not at all. Either way, I’m done with you.  _

He writhes on cheap, scratchy sheets, screaming as fire races through his veins. He’s shaking, undone, pleading, only no one is there to listen. He’s falling, plummeting through the clouds to the earth. The wind screams and tears through him, and no one is there to catch him, no one--

“God, even your nightmares are boring.” 

Castiel swims slowly to awareness. They’re in a hotel room, the decorations nicer than he would have expected. Meg turns his head and he sees the smears of crimson along the wall. She lifts a drink to his lips, allowing him to see the spatters of red dotted along his knuckles. 

If he could, Castiel would feel ill. He thought he would become numb to the horror. If anything, he’s become more susceptible to it. However, he’s not allowed to feel nauseous and retch with disgust. He’s a prisoner in his own mind, intangible. The only time he has a presence is when his captor allows it. 

Meg gives him the equivalent of a kick, jarring him back to her inane comments. Oddly enough, Castiel gets the impression that she’s almost lonely. This is her twisted version of trying to make conversation. 

**_Sorry they couldn’t be more entertaining for you. I’m sure if I survive this, I’ll have dozens of new nightmares._ **

“Oooh, a comedian. Wish I’d found that out earlier, I could have used some diversion. Demons don’t usually provide scintillating conversation.” 

Castiel remains quiet. It’s difficult for him to creep around the edges of his cage without alerting Meg as to his intentions, but if he’s careful and concentrates, then he can get a pretty good feel of what she’s thinking. He sits quietly and absorbs the top layer of Meg’s emotions. After a moment, his eyes snap open. 

Meg’s thoughts are disjointed and jagged. Before, she always had some kind of concrete plan, even if the plan was abhorrent. Now, all he finds are shards and snippets. It’s like someone took her psyche, tossed it onto the ground, then swept the pieces into a discordant jumble. 

“It was the Winchesters who ruined it, you know?” Meg foregoes the glass beside her hand, opting to kill the neck of her bottle. “There was a  _ plan.  _ It was laid out by the best minds, since Cain and Abel. Every contingency, every twist and turn accounted for. And it unfolded through millennia, like a perfect pile of dominos. It was foolproof. Not Winchester proof.” She guzzles another drink. “Fucking… They ruined the plan, and I don’t know what comes next. It’s been a thousand years and I don’t know what to  _ do.” _

**_Have you ever thought about not killing people?_ **

Castiel cringes, expecting reprisal, but Meg just chuckles. “Attitude, Clarence.” She taps his fingers against the arm of the chair. “You know, most of my meatsuits haven’t had half your spunk.” 

Castiel remains stubbornly silent. He hadn’t meant to give her that much. 

“Oh, come on, Cas,” she chides, jiggling his foot impatiently. She rubs over his jaw, surprising him when she allows sensation to travel from his fingers to his confines. She’s let his facial hair grow out, almost to the point of a beard. “Don’t be like that. I let you talk to your boyfriend, didn’t I? You’re still gonna be sore with me after that?” 

Pain jolts through Castiel at the memory. At the time, he hadn’t been sure whether it was real or not. Everything was hazy as he drifted between memories of Michael, blood, and drugs. Hearing Dean’s voice in the midst of that… Castiel had been convinced that Meg had just concocted some new torture for him. 

It wasn’t until he heard Dean’s voice crack on his full name that he believed. Meg could never manufacture that level of emotion. She wasn’t capable of it. 

**_Dean is going to kill you._ **

He’s never doubted it. He knows that Dean might agonize over his decision, might lose some sleep over it, but in the end, Dean will do what needs to be done. 

It was always a one way journey. 

It was why he had to apologize. 

He’d wanted more time with Dean, of course he had. He wanted to live long enough to feel his joints punish him for his youthful indiscretions. He wanted to debate the finer points of philosophy with Sam. He wanted… Well, he’d wanted a hell of a lot of things. 

He made his decision. 

Meg laughs, shattering his morose thoughts. “You keep giving me that line, but were you on the same call I was? You must have some kind of magic dick. I’ve never heard Winchester get that choked up.” Meg idly palms at his crotch. Castiel wants to retch out his disgust, but like almost everything else in his life, it’s trapped inside him. He’s merely a prisoner as Meg uses his body. 

“I guess we’ll see, huh?” 

**_There’s nothing to see. I don’t have the slightest doubt of their conviction._ **

“May the best demon win,” Meg hums. She finishes off the bottle and tosses it against the wall. It shatters, leaving yet another stain on the once pristine paint. “I’ve told them what’s at stake if they decide to sit around with their thumbs up their asses.” 

Castiel suppresses his shudder. He knows all too well what Meg’s threatening. She used him in order to make it possible, ripping her fingers through his thoughts and memories, shredding at his mind until she came out with the bloody nuggets she sought. 

If anyone is hurt, it’ll be his fault. 

“Until then, I’ve got a few hours to kill. Let’s see if we can’t dredge up anything a little more interesting.” Meg forces his voice into a higher octave, cruelly gleeful, and Castiel flinches. 

**_No, wait, I can--_ **

His pathetic plea for mercy is cut off as Meg plunges into his memories and his world disintegrates into blood, sulfur, and death. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	12. oblations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers how it was, when Azazel was in his father’s body and was tearing him apart from the inside out. He remembers the agony when Meg had them prisoner in the clearing, how it felt as though there were dozens of nails ripping through his innards. Seeing Cas now is akin to that. 
> 
> He never appreciated Cas while he had him. If Dean could do it differently, then he would go back, he would bash down his fear and repression, and force himself to look into Cas’ eyes and say what he actually felt. He and Cas existed in a comfortable state of banter and innuendo, choosing to speak more with their bodies than with their words. And it worked, but it doesn’t come close to encompassing everything that Dean feels now, when he’s confronted with reality. 
> 
> He’s been in this life too long to believe in happy endings. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Three weeks. 

It takes three weeks to get a solid lead on Meg. 

Three weeks of pacing, three weeks of waiting for the call to tell him about the dead bodies Meg left in her wake. Three weeks of imagining every single torture Meg can inflict, three weeks of wondering what kind of horrors she’s using Cas’ body to commit. 

Three weeks of wondering whether or not Cas is even alive. 

Their short conversation plays on repeat through his dreams, Cas’ desperate  _ I’m sorry  _ a waking nightmare he can’t escape. Sam might be right; Meg might be falling apart (the trail of bodies she’s leaving behind her certainly says that detection is one of the last worries on her mind), but she’s still exquisitely trained in the art of torture. He hasn’t slept a full night since the phone call, he’s barely managed to scrape together his paltry four hours. 

They’ve finally narrowed Meg’s location to a luxury hotel in Chicago. From the pictures Dean finds on the internet, it’s a place where celebrities and the wealthy come to lick their wounds, lay low, and receive the best pampering money can buy. The more Dean thinks about it, the more sense it makes to him. In a place like that, there are always people willing to look the other way for the right incentive. Ignoring screams or washing strange stains out of the bedding would probably be a normal Thursday for these folks. 

Their plan, such as it is, is laughable. Now that they’ve narrowed down Meg’s location, they still have to tail her and determine her routines and routes. After they figure out the times when Meg is absent from the room, Sam wants to sneak up into it and booby trap it with every sigil, warding, and Devil’s Trap known to man. 

“If we can get her in a Devil’s Trap, then we can get the mark off of Cas’ arm,” Sam says. He’s too enthusiastic, to make up for Dean’s general lack, speaking too quickly and waving his arms to emphasize unimportant points. “Once the sigil is off his arm, it’s as easy as an exorcism. It won’t solve the main problem, but it’ll at least give us a chance to regroup.” 

_ At least it won’t kill Cas,  _ is what Sam doesn’t say, but Dean hears it nonetheless. 

He knows Sam understands, just as well as he does, what it’s going to come down to. He’s caught Sam contemplating the knife, running his thumb over its wicked edges, down to the point which tapers into a point so fine it disappears. Sam knows this ends with a body on the ground, same as him, but Sam has also managed to retain some kind of childish hope about their lives, and Dean’s not going to be the one to shatter that faith. He’s taken so much else from Sam, he can at least allow him to keep this. 

Besides, at the end, Dean knows who’s going to hold the knife, and it sure as hell won’t be Sam. 

He figures he owes Cas that much. If their positions were reversed, he’d want it to be Cas. 

So he packs himself and Sam into the Impala. They make the day and a half drive to Chicago, where there are too many cars, too many people, and not enough room to park. They’ve worked a few cases in Chicago, and Dean’s never been impressed. Maybe one day, some massive storm will just wipe the place off the map. 

The Waldorf-Astoria is the kind of old money establishment that makes Dean’s skin crawl just by being within a city’s block of it. It looms proud and prominent over him. Dean stares up at it and tries to pretend like he belongs here. Somewhere, in that maze of rooms and privilege, is Cas. 

“Have you managed to hack the guest list yet?” he hisses at Sam. 

Sam doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop. “You know, this isn’t as easy as you seem to think it is,” he complains, fingers tapping at the keyboard. He pauses and pokes at the touchpad. “This hotel’s security is no joke. They’ve got to protect all their guests.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and bites back the automatic sarcastic remark. He occupies himself by taking a sip of his overpriced coffee and examining the front of the hotel from behind the cover of his sunglasses. Sat outside the small cafe across the street, he and Sam could pass for either students, young professionals, or hipsters with particularly bad fashion sense. 

He stares at the ornate doors, almost as if, by expending sheer force of will, he can force Cas to appear. Every time the doors open, light fractures off of the glass, and his eyes are drawn there. Always, he’s disappointed. All sorts of people leave, from pudgy businessmen to high priced escorts. Never Cas. 

Sam’s low noise of surprise grabs his attention. Dean looks over at his brother. At this point, he’s almost desperate for any sort of break to the monotony. 

“Does the name William Sydney Porter mean anything to you?” 

Dean performs a quick inventory of his aliases, potential or otherwise, and comes up blank. “Doesn’t mean shit to me. Never used--” He stops dead as he remembers. “It’s Cas’. That’s one of his.” 

_ That’s pretentious as fuck,  _ Dean had said, when he flipped through some of Cas’ old I.D.s to see that name glaring at him, atop of a picture of Cas looking like his regular, scowly, self.  _ You sound like some kind of judge or something.  _

Cas had yanked the thin rectangle out of his hands, carefully replacing it in his bag.  _ It was O. Henry’s real name. And I’m not the one who thought that ‘Agents Jagger and Richards’ wouldn’t get at least an eyebrow raise.  _

_ Shut the fuck up,  _ had been Dean’s less than eloquent answer. He’d indulged in a good sulk, at least until Cas flipped him over from his belly to his back. Cas hovered over him, obnoxious and a little surly, and stared into his eyes with a focus that was still as unnervingly intent now as it was the first time it was turned onto Dean. Still dedicated to his sulk, Dean moved his gaze down from Cas’ face to his chest. Not that the view there was any less distracting; Dean indeed found himself very distracted by tan skin and dark nipples, pulled to a tight nub by the overly enthusiastic air conditioner. 

_ Don’t pout,  _ Cas told him, his lips curving in the wonderfully awkward smile which never failed to tug out a corresponding expression from Dean’s mouth.  _ You’re not very attractive when you pout.  _

The scrape of Sam’s seat brings him crashing back to the present, where he’s alone and staring at a building he hates on basic principle, and his brother is staring at him as though he’s afraid Dean will run screaming into traffic. 

“That little bitch,” Dean finally breathes. “She’s baiting us.” 

Sam hums. Dean has the sneaking suspicion that his brother arrived at this conclusion a long time ago, but he’s kind enough not to say anything. 

“Sam, we can’t go in there.” Dean’s chest twists as he looks up at the imposing structure of the hotel. “It’s a damn trap. She’s probably got dozens of eyes on the entire place. The second we go in, we’re made.” 

“Dean, we have to.” Sam’s voice is a mixture of righteous and disbelieving. “This is our best shot. In fact, this could be our only shot. We lose her here and who knows how long it’s going to be before we find her again?”

“Or she could be long gone and just have left a dozen demons behind to take care of us. You really want to take that chance?” 

Sam’s face twists into the bitchiest of expressions before it smooths out. At first Dean thinks that Sam’s just realized that they’re in public, and therefore, not really in the prime position for a knockdown fight, but then he notices that Sam’s eyes are focused on a point just beyond his shoulder. Dean turns around, keeping just enough presence of mind to make his quick twist look casual. It takes him a second to suss out what’s grabbed Sam’s attention. When he does, his heart turns to ice in his chest. 

He moves differently, his normal, measured paces turned into something loose and bouncy. He’s dressed differently, in a weird sort of business casual get-up with a waistcoat and a tie, and his normally wild hair has finally been tamed into a respectable part. But Dean would recognize him anywhere. 

“Cas,” he whispers, unable to stop the name from tumbling from his lips. 

Cas, or Meg, never pauses or bothers to look around her as she walks up the sidewalk to the hotel. The staff treat her like she’s an honored guest. No way of telling whether they’re her creatures or just well-trained. Dean leans forward, desperate for any glimpse, even as the formidable doors close behind Meg and she’s lost to his sight. 

“Well,” Sam says, after a short pause, “I guess now we know we’ve got the right spot.” 

Dean ignores him. Every time he thinks he’s grown immune to the horror of Cas’ situation, something else hits him squarely in the gut. First the call and the shock of hearing Cas’ voice, his  _ real  _ voice, and now he’s confronted with the sight of him. 

He remembers how it was, when Azazel was in his father’s body and was tearing him apart from the inside out. He remembers the agony when Meg had them prisoner in the clearing, how it felt as though there were dozens of nails ripping through his innards. Seeing Cas now is akin to that. 

He never appreciated Cas while he had him. If Dean could do it differently, then he would go back, he would bash down his fear and repression, and force himself to look into Cas’ eyes and say what he actually felt. He and Cas existed in a comfortable state of banter and innuendo, choosing to speak more with their bodies than with their words. And it worked, but it doesn’t come close to encompassing everything that Dean feels now, when he’s confronted with reality. 

He’s been in this life too long to believe in happy endings. 

\---

Dean bridles at Sam’s plan, but he has to admit that it’s sound. If it were up to him, then he would have sprinted after Cas and gutted Meg right in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. Sam, predictably, has a better idea. 

Sam forces them to wait and case the hotel, pointing out that the hotel’s security is better than mwhat they’ve become accustomed to. It would be humiliating to storm into the hotel only to get nabbed by a regular human security guard. Worse would be to storm upstairs to find a whole roomful of demons waiting for them. Much as Dean hates to think it, caution is the better part of valor in this instance. 

So he and Sam linger outside the hotel for two days, trying to pin down any hint of a schedule for Meg. There’s no indication as to what she’s doing in Chicago, no omens, no murders, not even a few strange disappearances. For all intents and purposes, it’s just as though she’s taking a short vacation in the Windy City. Dean doesn’t trust it, no more than he trusts any part of this. 

By the end of two days, they’ve created a flimsy cover for themselves. It won’t hold up under direct scrutiny, but their maintenance disguises will hopefully be enough to get them in the door. Getting through the demons will prove more difficult, but they’ve prepared as best they can for all contingencies. 

They wait until shift change and slip in with the rest of the staff. Dressed in their uniforms, no one spares them as a second glance as they head for the service elevator. Once inside, Dean takes off the hat pulled down low over his eyes to hide his face from nosy cameras. He peers at the dizzying array of buttons. “Penthouse,” Sam reminds him, like he needs it. 

Dean spares a sneer for his brother before he shoves his thumb at the button indicating the 26th floor. It takes the elevator a second to acknowledge the command. Then, with a swift lurch that leaves Dean’s stomach hanging somewhere around his knees, the elevator launches itself into the air. Dean breathes slowly in and out through his nose, fighting against the immediate nausea which comes from being so high up. Sam shifts next to him, but doesn’t offer any commentary, for which Dean is grateful. Bad enough that he’s going to be fighting demons twenty-six floors from the ground. Worse if he has to do it with his little brother voicing every concern running through his head. 

The elevator comes to a relatively soft stop, hanging in mid-air before the doors silently slide open. Dean gives one last look at Sam before stepping out onto the silent floor. The air is lightly perfumed with vanilla and cinnamon, but if Dean takes a deep breath, he can smell the faint aroma of rot underneath. Fucking demons. 

The door of the Presidential suite looms in front of them. It’s all come down to this. Tucked up close against the small of his back, Ruby’s knife is a cold promise. 

Cas, falling asleep in the backseat, head tipped back against the seat as tiny snores rumble out through his throat. Cas, his lips pursed in concentration as he makes a shot, Cas, clinging to him after a nightmare, only subsiding when Dean pressed a series of kisses against the nape of his neck. 

Cas, rising in that clearing, his eyes pitch black. 

Dean exhales, a last goodbye, and raps his knuckles against the thick wood of the door. 

“Maintenance,” he calls, making his voice deliberately gruff in a pale attempt to disguise himself. “Need to check the water pressure.” 

He doesn’t need to look at Sam to feel the force of his scorn. Dean ignores that, as he ignores most everything from Sam, and focuses instead on the door. 

He’s just raising his hand to knock again when the door creaks open. An unfamiliar man pokes his face out, expression automatically suspicious. “What did you--” 

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything more. Sam, always quick with the holy water, splashes some in his face. The demon howls and staggers backward, steam rising from his skin. 

Dean and Sam take advantage of his pain, rushing into the room. The knife is already in Dean’s hand and it’s nothing for him to reach up and bury it to the hilt in the demon’s chest. Electricity flashes, along with the outline of a skeleton, and the demon drops to the ground. He doesn’t get up. 

Meanwhile, Sam gets to work. He defaces the expensive hardwood floor with spray paint, speeding through the creation of a devil’s trap. Sam’s hands move in smooth, familiar patterns, the once tricky symbols almost like old friends at this point. 

He leaves Sam to the drawing of the Devil’s trap and starts to explore the rest of the suite. It’s cavernous, with a full kitchen and a living room with an expansive fireplace. Dean’s squatted in smaller houses. 

The cessation of the hiss and rattle of Sam’s spray painting should alert him that something is wrong, but Dean is too intent upon his task of clearing the hotel room. He doesn’t expect to see Meg here; they saw her leave the hotel earlier in the day, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she left several demons behind. Whether she’s cracking or not, Meg isn’t the type to leave much to chance. 

The silence doesn’t grab his attention, but the soft thud does. Heart creeping up into his throat, Dean retraces his steps, knife held at the ready. He rounds the corner and steps into a nightmare. 

One demon stands behind Sam, holding him captive with one hand twisted in his hair and a knife to his throat. Three other demons surround the room, looking smugly intimidating. And standing at the front of this tableau, looking grimly pleased…

“Sam. Dean.” Meg allows Cas’ voice to caress the short syllables of their names. His skin crawls as Cas’ blue eyes flash black. 

“You find the place okay?” 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Castiel has never been so helpless. 

The scene unfolds before him in horrific technicolor, yet his brain reacts to it as though he’s submerged miles underwater. He tries to shout a warning to Sam as two demons appear behind him, but it’s useless. All he can do is watch as Sam staggers after taking a vicious blow to his shoulders. Sam hits the ground, and after that, it’s a foregone conclusion as to how the fight will end. The demons strip Sam of any weapons, including his flask of holy water and containers of salt. A knife pressed to the throat, close enough to scrape off the top layer of skin, keeps Sam from shouting a warning to Dean. 

A bolt of heat travels from the tips of his fingers to scorch the Devil’s Trap off the floor. Meg pilots his body forward, unafraid of the futile scribbles on the floor as she tilts his head. Castiel can feel the muscles of his face stretch as she pulls his lips back in a ghastly grin. “Cute trick,” she says, batting his eyes flirtatiously at Sam. “Now, Sammy. Where’s your brother?” 

Meg’s question is answered mere moments later, when Dean comes around the corner of the hallway. Whatever Dean was expecting, Castiel can tell it wasn’t finding himself and his brother badly outnumbered, and Sam already taken as a hostage. Despair curls through Castiel as he rattles at the bars of his cage. Meg spares him a derisive laugh, delighting in his helplessness. 

“Find the place okay?” Meg asks Dean. 

Castiel wants to curl away in the back of his mind so he doesn’t have to witness this, but he owes this to Dean and Sam. It’s his fault Dean is here. His incompetence and stupidity led them to this point. He thought he could save the Winchesters. How foolish. How arrogant to think he had any purpose at all. 

“I’ll give you once chance to let my brother go and get out of him.” Dean points the knife to Sam and Castiel in turn. “Do that and we can call the whole thing even.” 

Meg throws her head back to the ceiling and shrieks with laughter so high-pitched that it’s a wonder the glass doesn’t crack. “You really think you’re in a position to negotiate?” A knife appears in her hand, the blade pressing against the vulnerable skin of Castiel’s wrists. Dean freezes, his eyes fixated on the point where Meg threatens the very blood in Castiel’s veins. “One word and Sammy’s gonna find breathing hard. Not to mention, I can bleed your boyfriend like a stuck pig.” 

Dean licks his lips, looking back and forth between him and Sam. Castiel already knows the choice he’ll make, he’s known from the beginning. He doesn’t begrudge Dean his decision; it’s probably the same as he would have made. 

“Let Sam go,” Dean whispers. The point of the blade wavers before he points it directly at the ground. “You let Sam go and we can work something out.” 

Meg’s laugh is a little less delighted, a little more disbelieving. “Dean-o, I think you’re confused. You seem to be under the impression that you have some kind of bargaining chip. If you’ll look around, I think you’ll find that I have all the cards.” 

Castiel knows what she means to do. For the past however long it’s been, Meg has grown lax at keeping him locked away, so he’s been privy to most of her rantings and schemes. There’s a difference, however, between guessing the theory and feeling the certainty. 

She means to kill Sam and Dean. 

And here he is, helpless in his own mind. 

Meg twists his fingers and Dean buckles, a low gasp of pain wrung from his lips. Castiel tries to seize control of his own limbs but fails. He’s forced to watch as Dean crumples to the ground. One of the demons darts forward and snatches the knife from Dean’s nerveless fingers. He presents the weapon to Meg. She brings it up close, examining the symbols etched along the blade. 

“You know, I spent so long dreaming of this moment, but now that we’re here, I honestly don't know what to do,” she begins, stepping forward. His fingers wrap around Dean’s jaw, cruelly wrenching his head up. “Should I eviscerate you and let Sam watch? Or the other way around?” 

Meg looks over his shoulder at Sam, who ignores the blade of the knife to struggle against his captors. A thin trickle of blood flows down his throat as a result, but Sam continues. Castiel’s overcome with a wave of admiration for the Winchesters. 

Meg turns her attention back to Dean. A slow smile spreads across her face as she dips his hand into the collar of Dean’s shirt, stroking over warm, slightly clammy skin. Castiel’s fingertips find the edges of Dean’s anti-possession tattoo. “Or maybe I should burn this off of you and crawl inside? I bet you have all sorts of nasty things hiding in that pretty head, huh Winchester?” 

Meg drops down to one knee, putting herself and Dean at eye-level. “I’ve been inside your boyfriend for so long, but the scenery is starting to get a little boring. How’d you manage to keep him around for so long without wanting to rip your face off? A little whiny, don’t you think?” Meg coughs and Castiel shudders in horror to hear her reaching for his actual voice.

_ “Oh, I’m so sad, I killed my brother and I used to be a filthy junkie! I’m so useless and pointless that I went crawling after someone who ditched me after a single night because I couldn’t find anyone else willing to put up with my pathetic ass! Please Dean, if you take me in I’ll suck your dick real good!”  _ Meg coughs, twisting his face in distaste. “God, how did you put up with that?” 

She leans closer, conspiratorially dropping her voice. “Although, I have seen what he’s packing and some...other stuff, so I guess he earned his keep, huh?” 

Castiel expects to feel Dean’s fist slamming into his face. The look on Dean’s face is murderous, his lips pulling away from his teeth in hatred. 

Dean, as always, surprises him. He looks at Castiel’s face, so fervently that Castiel can almost believe Dean is looking straight at his true self. “Cas,” he chokes out, emotion and pain thickening his voice. “Cas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Meg makes a low noise of disgust and pushes away from him. “God, you’re both so fucking useless.” She snatches the demon knife and turns back to Dean, still held motionless by Meg’s power. “Fucking boring. If I wanted to see witless idiots blubber, I would just turn on the TV.” She flips the knife in her hand, leaving the blade pointed towards Dean. “Let’s see if we can get something more interesting, huh?”

Without warning, she slams his knuckles into Dean’s face. Castiel cries out in horror as she allows him to feel every inch of impact--the bruise against his skin and bones, the split of Dean’s cheek underneath his knuckles, the shock traveling up from his hand to his shoulder. Dean reels backward, but he doesn’t fall. 

“He blames you, did you know that?” Meg says conversationally, hauling Dean upright by his hair. Behind them, Castiel can hear Sam protesting and the sounds of a struggle, but Meg’s attention and consequently his, is focused on Dean. “He says that if he’d never met you, then he’d be happy. Think about it,” Meg orders, wrenching his fist back only to slam it into Dean’s face once more. “Poor little Cas never meets Dean Winchester, he still has his job, his brother, his warped sense of morality and duty, he still goes off and fucks sweet little things at the bar--” Castiel howls as Dean slumps in Meg’s grasp. 

“And then he meets you, and within forty-eight hours, you manage to shred all of that. After I finish eviscerating you and your brother, I’m going to rip him apart too.” 

“Cas,” Dean manages to garble out. Bloody spittle dribbles out of his lips and coats his chin. “Cas, I’m sorry.” 

Meg snarls, an inhuman noise ripping out of his throat. Castiel struggles against her grip, pushing whenever he finds a weak spot, ripping and clawing and screaming like a wild thing. She hits Dean again and again, blood flying in the air to spatter against his clothes. 

It ends with Meg’s hand clamping against Dean’s shoulder, holding him upright. Dean slumps into her grip, blood dripping to the floor from dozens of cuts littered across his face. 

“You fucking sap,” Meg accuses. Castiel can feel the knife grasped in his hand, like it was all those months ago when he plunged it into Michael’s chest. “He doesn’t care about you.” 

Castiel doesn’t know whether the words are intended for him or Dean. It doesn’t matter, as Meg pulls his hand back, the knife tilted ominously towards Dean. Behind them, Sam howls, but he’s caught in his own fight. He can’t save Dean. 

“Cas,” Dean rasps, blinking blood out of his eyes. He kneels, head craned up to look at him. Black eyes, devoid of emotion, stare back at Dean, but his gaze never wavers. “Cas, please.” 

Meg growls, tightening her grip on the knife. She’s going to kill Dean. She’s going to drive that knife through his chest and out his back, she’s going to take one of the best things Castiel’s ever had in his life, she’s going to use his body to destroy the only good things left to him. 

A single pinprick of light parts the thick black fog of his mind. Unthinkingly, Castiel reaches out for it and then--

Castiel blinks as the world rushes in back around him. For the first time in weeks, he’s  _ present,  _ he’s in  _ charge. _ In the back of his mind, Meg howls obscenities as she claws at his fragile control. Maintaining his hold is like trying to steer a car with his pinky toe, and he can already tell that his attempt will be short lived. 

“Cas?” Dean asks. He knows something has changed, but he doesn’t know what. He can’t possibly comprehend the joy and grief coursing through Castiel, can’t possibly know how lovely and wonderful he is, here with nothing but faith and hope driving him forward. 

Castiel stares down at him, a single second stretching into eternity as he finally understands what it is he has to do. 

“Dean,” is all he can say. 

Something tips Dean off, either his pitch or his eyes, or just the undefinable  _ something  _ they’ve shared since they first met eyes across a pool table. Horror spreads across Dean’s face, panic and denial, and Cas holds onto one of the last good memories he has of Dean, that night before they went to the clearing when Dean’s shoulder pressed into his, the simple warmth of him, the connection, and he’d thought that he could maybe, actually-- 

His arm swings up in a wild arc before he brings it down in a brutal twist. 

The knife stabs into his body. 

Pain, immediate and overpowering, explodes through his body. From a distance, he hears Meg screaming her death cry. Heat and acid writhe through his veins and scorch his flesh. He’s burning, he’s tearing apart. Dean is his compass, his terrified green eyes Castiel’s last remaining link to the real world, but even those fade as he crumples to the ground. 

The world is so very far away. Sam, the demons, even Dean. They’re all so very distant as his heart struggles to beat. Warmth spills over his torso down to the floor, all coming from the hole in his stomach. Blood, he’s lying in a pool of it, and he’s vaguely surprised to realize that it’s all his. 

“Cas?  _ Cas!”  _

Dean’s voice, the lights… Everything fades. 

The world goes black. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll thank me later. Promise.


	13. convalescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has never enjoyed hospitals. 
> 
> When he was almost electrocuted on the rawhead hunt, he’d resigned himself to dying, but like hell if he was going to do it within the sterile walls of the death box. Dad’s last minutes were spent in a hospital, in a last-ditch attempt to save his miserable life. Hospitals are where the victims, if they’re very lucky, go to recover from the various horrors the supernatural world inflicts on them. If they’re unlucky, then Dean will find them in the lower levels of the hospital, stuffed into a cold, metal drawer. In Dean’s experience, hospitals and doctors don’t do shit to save anyone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean has never enjoyed hospitals. 

When he was almost electrocuted on the rawhead hunt, he’d resigned himself to dying, but like hell if he was going to do it within the sterile walls of the death box. Dad’s last minutes were spent in a hospital, in a last-ditch attempt to save his miserable life. Hospitals are where the victims, if they’re very lucky, go to recover from the various horrors the supernatural world inflicts on them. If they’re unlucky, then Dean will find them in the lower levels of the hospital, stuffed into a cold, metal drawer. In Dean’s experience, hospitals and doctors don’t do shit to save anyone. 

His distrust and fear keep him pacing across the dingy waiting room floor for five hours straight. Exhaustion makes his feet heavy as they pulse with agony, but he can’t stay still. Every time he tries, he finds himself upright once again, almost as if he’s possessed. 

Now there’s a bit of irony. 

Every time his path takes him by the nurses’ station, the whispers follow him. He’s not surprised; any time someone brings in a man bleeding out from a stomach wound, there is bound to be gossip. Dean ignores the pervasive cloud of suspicion. Their cover story is as tight as it’s possible to be, and thanks to a quick intervention by Ash, all of Cas’ insurance information will check out. 

Dean makes another circuit of the waiting room. From where he’s folded into one of the small plastic chairs, Sam watches him through red-rimmed eyes. He doesn’t waste his time trying to get Dean to sit down. He already knows it wouldn’t do any good. 

A smear of rusty red is still smeared, livid, against the pale skin of his wrist. Staring down at it, Dean feels his gorge start to rise. 

It was his every nightmare realized, but worse, because this time he couldn’t escape into the refuge of consciousness. For several desperate seconds, he tried, screaming in the back of his mind-- _ wake up, wake up, please wake up-- _ but to no avail. This was reality, inescapable and cruel. 

Dean knew, in that moment, he was going to die. He was as ready as he could be. He knew, for Sam’s sake, he should fight, but he found himself overwhelmingly, unbelievably  _ tired.  _ What was the point? There was always going to be another fight, another demon, another horror that wanted them dead. There was no escape. He’d gotten Mom killed, then Dad. Now it’s Cas. And after Cas, it’ll be Sam. Let it end. Take Dean Winchester off the board and maybe some of his remaining friends could find some peace. 

With the single thought of self-immolation burning through his brain, Dean stared up at Castiel. He knew every imperfection of that face, knew how it twisted in pleasure, crumpled in pain, and softened in sleep. Now it was distorted beyond his ken, turned into something horrific and monstrous as Meg spat vitriol and hatred at him. Perhaps it was lies, perhaps it was the truth. It didn’t matter. He stared into the inky black of Cas’ eyes and said the one thing that mattered. 

_ Cas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.  _

Had there been a flicker? Had he seen blue flash within the depths of onyx? Who was to say? 

Meg continued manipulating Cas’ body and Cas’ voice. Between the two of them, he soared and plummeted to heights he never thought he’d reach, levels of pain he thought were impossible to experience while still maintaining a hold on life. He thought he would shatter every time Cas’ knuckles slammed into his body. With every blow, pain blazed an agonizing path through his body. 

Every blow drove him a step closer to the edge. Each time Cas’ knuckles split his skin, Dean felt another piece of himself torn away. Dean knew that he should be horrified but all he could muster was vague regret. 

Black eyes stared down at him, threatening to engulf him. All he could remember was a single morning when he’d been trying to wake Cas. Cas had been his regular irascible self and tugged the covers over his head in an attempt to evade Dean’s efforts. When Dean insisted, Cas retaliated the only way he could, by tugging Dean onto the mattress with him. Within seconds, Dean found himself incapacitated as Cas straddled him, turning his earlier sleepiness into a myth. Cas’ eyes had been overbright, shining with delight and mischief and something else Dean was too afraid to name. 

Black stared down at him, and it suddenly seemed so unfair that this would be his last sight. 

He spit blood out of his mouth, the thick liquid coating his chin. “Cas,” he tried. “Cas, please.” 

Even as he paces the waiting room, Dean doesn’t know what he was asking for. For Cas to stop? For Cas to save him? For Cas to give up on him? For Cas to forgive him? 

Whatever he was asking for, he never had a chance to find out. Regardless of his motivation, he’d said it, and then watched as Cas froze. His face spasmed, almost like Cas was about to barf, and then--

It reminded Dean of a guitar string stretched beyond its capability and finally snapped. That sense of  _ wrongness,  _ of the earth being just so slightly askew and then scrambling to put itself back to rights. 

“Cas?” he asked, not knowing why, yet knowing that everything was changed. 

Cas looked down at him. The black bled out from his eyes. Brilliant blue stared down at him and Cas’ face softened, but Dean knew, he  _ knew-- _

“Dean,” was all Cas said, before he twisted his wrist and stabbed the knife deep into his own stomach. 

Dean had screamed then, an involuntary cry torn deep from his throat, horror and denial and agony put into a wordless wail. He hadn’t even cared about the other scream which echoed his. Meg’s dying gasp was ignored in the face of a much greater calamity. Cas fell bonelessly to the ground. Dean’s heart stopped once he hit. 

There had been no rational thought as he’d crawled forward. He’d only had the need to  _ get to Cas, save Cas, Cas, Cas-- _ He touched Cas’ shoulder then recoiled as Cas coughed, spraying blood over his chin. 

It had been Sam who saved them. Sam took Cas’ arm and pulled him upright, Sam urged him to do the same until they were supporting Cas’ body between them. Every step had pain sinking its teeth further into him as Cas’ deadweight functioned both as an accusation as well as a burden. It was Sam who got them down the elevator and into the back alley, who drove the Impala to the hospital, who careened into the Emergency Room with the flimsiest of backstories to get Cas in the door, Sam who called Ash and explained the problem as succinctly as possible. Sam took care of everything while Dean could only sit in the backseat of the Impala, holding Cas against him, pressing his hand to the wound in Cas’ stomach, terror seeping through him when he realized that the blood against his hand was congealing and turning cold. 

Dean pauses in his pacing and looks at Sam. Sam returns his look, his eyes bleak and empty. There’s a livid purple bruise clouding his right eye and his lip is split. Dean knows his own face is a patchwork of cuts and bruises. He’s not sure whether their appearance gave more or less credence to their story that they’d been out drinking and gotten attacked. He doesn’t really care. 

“Mr. Davies?” 

It takes Dean a moment to remember the alias. When he does, he whips around, so fast that the world blurs in the meantime. “That’s me. Us.” He gestures to Sam, who unfolds himself from the chair. “What’s happening? How is he? Can we see him?” 

The doctor is young (much too young, are they handing out medical degrees in nursery school these days?) and looks exhausted. She tucks a loose strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear and glances down at her clipboard. 

“I’m Dr. Robinson. You’re here waiting for…” She checks her clipboard again, and Dean represses the urge to rip it out of her hands. “Cas Dalton?” 

“How is he?” Dean asks. He’s about three seconds away from shaking her. She’s keeping information about Cas from him, he needs to  _ know-- _

A soft touch to his wrist guides him to a chair. It’s not until his knees buckle and he drops into a chair that Dean realizes he was being manipulated. Once in the chair, however, his overwrought body can’t gather enough energy to move or even be irritated. “Please,” Sam says, his voice hoarse and raw. “He’s important to us. Is he all right?” 

“Well, as you know, he sustained a serious stab wound, as well as several other injuries--”

“Doc, you’re killing me.” Dean seizes the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. “Please.”

“The surgery went well,” Dr. Robinson says, and Dean feels as though all of his bones have disintegrated into goo. “The knife nicked his small bowel, but our surgeons were able to repair the damage. There is always the danger of sepsis and infection, so he’s not out of the woods yet, but the immediate damage was taken care of. I’d say that, barring any complications, his prognosis is good.”

Dean slumps forward, forehead pressing into his knees until tiny marks from his jeans imprint themselves in his skin. His fingers twist in his hair, bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. The small starbursts of pain keep him from becoming completely unhinges. He becomes aware, after a few seconds, that he’s shaking. Heaving breaths, not quite sobs, rush out of his mouth, and though there’s heat prickling behind his eyes, he’s not crying. 

Cas is going to live. 

He listens to Sam ask all the relevant questions about recovery time and further complications and eventual quality of health. The doctor’s answers pass over him in a susurrus of meaningless noise. They’re unimportant. After everything they’ve endured, it’s inconceivable that Cas could die from something as insubstantial as an infection. 

Cas is going to  _ live.  _

“Can we see him?” Sam finally asks. The question pierces the fog surrounding Dean’s brain. 

Dr. Robinson looks at her thrice damned clipboard again and grimaces. “Unfortunately, Mr. Dalton’s in the ICU and only family members are allowed. I’m sorry.” 

She really does look sorry, a sympathetic little frown furrowing her mouth and forehead, but Dean can’t see her as anything else other than an obstacle. “I’m his fiance,” he says, which isn’t anything close to what he intended to say. Sam rears back slightly in surprise, but he covers it so quickly and so smoothly that Dean doubts Dr. Robinson even registered it. 

Suspicion is the predominant expression on the doctor’s face, masking thinly veiled pity. “We don’t have rings, because, you know, Heartland and bigoted assholes,” Dean says, aware that he’s babbling, “but I swear, look.” He fumbles for his phone and opens up his photos. It doesn’t take him that long to find the picture he’s looking for; he’s not much for having a bunch of pictures. But he’s stared at this picture so much throughout the past weeks that he could find it blindfolded. 

Reluctantly, Dean gives his phone to Dr. Robinson. He doesn’t need to look to know what’s on the screen: one of the rare selfies he managed to snag of him and Cas. He’s the only one looking at the camera; Cas is looking at him. In the picture, Cas’ upper lip lifts in an expression which could be mistaken for irritation, were it not for the unmistakably fond light in his eyes. Dean snapped the picture just as he pressed a sloppy kiss to Cas’ cheek, and that’s the moment which has been preserved for eternity. That’s the moment which he hands the doctor, feeling a little bit like he’s giving her his still beating heart. 

Dr. Robinson looks at the phone and then back at him. She repeats the action several times. It’s obvious she’s playing for time, and Dean doesn’t interrupt her. Finally, she gives him the phone back. Dean takes it, barely managing to stop himself from clutching it to his chest. 

“I’m not supposed to, but I guess…” She doesn’t continue, but Dean doesn’t need her to. She glances over her shoulder, but the nurses are consumed by their own tasks, and no one else is on the floor. “Come with me.” 

She leads them through a series of corridors to a small room, pausing in front of the door. “Now, don’t be alarmed when you enter the room. It’s standard procedure, after injuries and surgeries such as Mr. Dalton had, for us to keep patients in a medical coma until their conditions stabilize. He’s intubated right now, and he’ll be sleeping for a while. It’s a little disconcerting to witness, but I promise, everything is working as it should.”

She opens the door, and Dean takes a tentative step inside. 

He’d thought the warning was maybe a tad melodramatic. He’s a hunter, he knows what human bodies look like when they’ve been run through the wringer and spit out the other side. He’s seen the ravages of time, teeth, and claws upon human flesh. 

He’s still not prepared for the sight of Cas in the hospital bed. 

Cas is not a small man, Cas is  _ solid  _ and built like a brick shithouse, yet he looks miniscule in the hospital bed. His wrists look fragile resting against the thin, white blanket. With half his face covered by a breathing apparatus, he looks almost unbearably young. Dean watches the rise and fall of Cas’ chest, hardly daring to believe it’s possible. He only relaxes when Cas’ chest expands and contracts with slow, steady breaths. 

The blanket is tucked up underneath Cas’ armpits, hiding his torso from view. Dean is irrationally grateful for that small mercy. Seeing the amount of machines hooked up to various parts of Cas’ body, wires and electrodes attached to his wrists, elbows, and forehead, is almost more than he can take. Seeing the ruin of Cas’ stomach, the gaping wound a reminder of his failure, would have been too much. As it, Dean’s barely managing to hold himself together. 

“He’s doing well and responding to all medications. It’s our hope that within the next 24 hours we can take him off the machines. Once he wakes up, we’ll have a more concrete view of his condition.” 

Dean nods. The doctor might as well be talking in Sumerian for all he understands, but the gist he’s getting from her words is that Cas isn’t going to die within the next hour. A single thought rises in his head, and he turns to the doctor.

“His meds.” His voice comes out as a broken croak. He clears his throat and looks back at Sam. Cas would hate his dirty laundry being aired in this way, but no doubt Sam’s already guessed at it anyway. His little brother is devilishly clever, and there towards the end, it’s not like Cas was holding much back from them. 

“He, uh, he can’t have narcotics.” Dean glances at Cas. He can’t help feel like he’s betraying him, even more than he already has. “He’s, um, he’s a recovering addict. So he can’t…” 

Dr. Robinson nods. “We noticed some suspicious marks, but now that we know for sure…” She makes a quick note on the clipboard. “I’ll make sure he gets something non-narcotic.” 

Dean nods. “Thanks. I…”

There’s infinite compassion in Dr. Robinson’s eyes as she nods. “I understand.” She gestures towards the small chairs in Cas’ room which, if anything, look even more uncomfortable than the chairs in the waiting room. “You’re welcome to stay with him. A nurse will be by in a little while to take his vitals.” 

Dean nods. Then, feeling more ancient than he has any right to, he slumps into the chair sitting at Cas’ bedside. 

After the agony of the past weeks, it feels anticlimactic. The blood, the sweat, the horror… It all culminates here, in the tedium of waiting. 

Sam twists his head until his neck pops. “I’m going to go get a coffee. You want anything?” 

Dean shakes his head, never taking his eyes off of Cas. He feels more than sees Sam’s accepting nod. A hand lands heavy on his shoulder and squeezes. Sam lingers for a second, looking like he wants to say something, but eventually he exits, leaving Dean alone with Cas. 

Dean stares at Cas and notes the deep bruises underneath his eyes, the pale tint of his skin, and the never-ending rise and fall of the heart monitor’s beeping. He finds it difficult to reconcile his memory of Cas to this husked out shell of a man barely clinging to life. 

The machines beep. Cas’ chest rises and falls in a barely discernible movement. And Dean sits and stares at the ruin he wrought. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


There’s a beeping. 

Its constant noise invades his dreams, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. Dean must be sleeping through his alarm again. It only happens every so often after hunts, but it’s never any less irritating for that.  _ Dean, turn it off,  _ he tries to mumble, but the words are stuck in his mouth. A faint tingle of worry rises at the back of his mind and it only grows when he tries to repeat himself.  _ Dean, turn your fucking alarm off,  _ he tries to say, but can’t. 

He can’t breathe.

Castiel’s eyes fly wide in panic as he scrabbles at his throat. He can’t  _ breathe,  _ there’s something in his  _ throat,  _ holy fuck,  _ he can’t-- _

“Cas? Cas? Cas, you’re okay, can you hear me? Cas, the doctors just need to take the tube out, you’re going to be okay--“ Somewhere in the depths of his panicked brain, he recognizes that voice, but he can’t bother to place it. Not when everything is brightness and pain, terror biting shrilly at the edges of his mind.

“Mr. Dalton?” A different voice shoves into his awareness. “You’re going to want to panic, but you have to relax. You have a tube in your throat which was helping you breathe, but we’re going to remove it. I’m going to squeeze your hand, and when I squeeze, you need to cough, all right? Blink if you understand.” 

He doesn’t understand, he knows nothing about what’s happening, but the words make a utilitarian sense to him. He blinks. 

“Good. We’ll take care of this. You’re doing well.” Pressure pushes against the bones of his hand, and Castiel remembers the instructions. He forces one cough, then another. He can  _ feel  _ the tube pulling out of him, like vomiting in slow motion. He gags, and with a final retch, the tube comes free. 

Castiel collapses backward. Stiff pillows halt his descent but they don’t stop the pain from zinging through his body. He groans, squinting at the bright lights which assault his tender pupils. 

What the hell is going on? The last thing he remembers, he was with Dean and Sam and they were hunting--They were--

Castiel’s eyes fly open as the horror of the past weeks slams into him. All at once he’s curling into himself, knees tucking into his chest as memories hit him like blows. Meg’s laugh echoes in his head as he remembers the blood pooling in his hands. And Sam, and  _ Dean-- _

_ He hurt Dean, he hurt Dean--- _

“Dean?” he rasps, because now he knows the other voice in the room. “Dean?”

His voice is rusty from disuse and the tube. It comes out a weak croak. He winces as pain scrapes down his throat, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Already unconsciousness beckons at the edges of his vision, but he has to hold on. He has to know if Dean’s all right. 

“Mr. Dalton, I know you’re tired and confused, but I need you to pay attention, just for a little bit.”

An unfamiliar face swims into view, dark brown eyes and curly black hair surrounding a kind face. “My name is Dr. Robinson. I’m just going to check a few of your vitals. You’ve had a pretty rough few days and I’d like to make sure everything’s working right.” 

_ If you only knew,  _ Castiel thinks, but he goes through the irritation of his pupil’s reactivity tested, his temperature taken, his knees, elbows, and wrists tapped, his blood pressure taken, and various places on his body tested for responsiveness. Castiel never complains. His eyes are drawn to the corner of the room, where Dean lurks. 

His vision is still fuzzy, but even from this distance, he can see the shadows of bruises darkening Dean’s face. Guilt churns in his gut, especially when he catches a glimpse of his own, torn knuckles. He did that. He  _ hurt  _ Dean. 

“All right, everything looks good,” Dr. Robinson says. While her voice is bright, it lands on just the right side of overly cheery. It disarms Castiel enough that he doesn’t stop to wonder what she’s doing when she deftly folds the blanket down over his lap. Her careful fingers pull away his top from his stomach. “Need to check your stitches,” she tells him. “Your friend said you had a nasty run-in with someone trying to take your wallet?” 

Castiel’s eyes flick to Dean and he gets a small nod in return. The moment is quick enough that no one else notices, but for Castiel, that small, unspoken communication is like a piece of the puzzle clicking into place. At least, at the end, Meg couldn’t take this away from him. 

“It was probably stupid,” he says, wincing again as his voice scrapes through his throat. A small cup of ice chips is put into his hand, and Castiel gratefully accepts the cool balm. “He tried to take it and I fought back. Probably the wrong decision.” 

“Next time, just hand it over, huh? Your American Express isn’t worth twenty seven stitches.” 

Castiel mutters something which must sound properly conciliatory. Dr. Robinson hums as she checks over the neat line of black stitches across his abdomen. “If it hadn’t been for your friend here, you might have had a real problem.” 

Castiel looks at Dean once more. He expects a cocky smile, maybe even a zippy one-liner. What he doesn’t expect is for Dean to almost cringe underneath the praise. Cold foreboding wraps its icy fingers around his heart, but his attention is drawn back to Dr. Robinson. 

“We’re going to need to keep you under observation for a few more days. There’s always the threat of infection, and we want to make sure there were no complications from surgery. You’re still attached to the drip for pain killers, so if you need to use that, then just press that button.” Dr. Robinson pushes a small device into his hand, but Castiel lets it fall from nerveless fingers onto the mattress. 

“I can’t,” he stammers, shame coloring his cheeks. “I’m...I can’t have narcotics, I’m--”

“Your friend already told us,” Dr. Robinson says kindly. “We have you on a non-narcotic painkiller.” She flips the blanket back up over his stomach and kindly pats his hand. “You’re probably going to want to rest for a little bit. The nurses will check up on you during their rounds.” She replaces his chart at the end of his bed and walks out of the room, leaving him alone with Dean. 

The worst possible conclusion crashes into Castiel’s mind. “Sam?” he asks, hardly daring to listen to the answer. 

Dean steps forward. His face is thrown into harsh relief by the merciless hospital lights, but Castiel’s question seems to soften something about him. “Sam’s fine,” he answers. “He’s getting some sleep back at the motel. We’ve been switching shifts back and forth.” 

Castiel doubts both that Sam is wholly fine (he’s seen the Winchester’s definition of fine; it comes too close to his own to be entirely trusted) and that Dean has been switching shifts. Dark purple bags rest under Dean’s eyes, evidence of too many nights spent folded into uncomfortable hospital chairs. “And you? How are you,Dean?” 

Castiel dreads the response. He can remember, with such shocking clarity that it makes him nauseous, exactly how his knuckles felt when they split Dean’s skin. He remembers Meg’s laugh rolling out of his mouth, and how she used his body to commit the worst sins. 

How can Dean even stand to look at him? 

“I’m fine, Cas.” Dean sits stiffly in the chair next to his bed. He pushes the small cup of ice chips at Castiel. Castiel accepts, though by now the chips are mostly melted into water. “You should probably get some sleep. You’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Dean. How long was--” He meant to ask how long was he unconscious for, but he stops. Under Meg’s possession, time became a fluid thing. Has it been months? Years? He used to know exactly how much time had passed, down to the minute. How long has he been absent from the world?

“It’s been seven weeks.” A cloud passes over Dean’s face. “You’ve been in here four days. The doctors had you under during all of it. They thought you could use a little more beauty rest.” 

Dean doesn’t put much effort into the joke and it falls horribly flat, but Castiel loves that he even tried. “I’m surprised they haven’t tried to tell you the same. You look horrible.” 

Once the words come out of his mouth, Castiel winces. With pain and medicine clouding his brain, his normal bluntness comes as an anvil more than a hammer, but Dean doesn’t shrink away. He shrugs a little, laughing it off. “I’ve been better,” Dean tells him. 

Though he didn’t mean it as a rebuke, Castiel takes it as one, shrinking back into the pillows. “Dean,” he whispers, every ounce of his shame and remorse saturating his shredded voice. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says quickly. He pats Castiel’s hand, but the touch is almost brusque and gone too quickly. “You need to sleep. Real sleep, not whatever shit the doctors had you doing. I’m going to get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, but I’ll be right back, okay?” Dean’s chair scrapes across the floor as he abruptly stands. 

He rests one hand against Castiel’s cheek, his thumb stroking over the bristles of his cheek, before he walks out the door, leaving Castiel alone with nothing but his guilt. 

  
  


\---

Despite his best efforts to stay awake, sleep must take Castiel at some point. He wakes to a darkened room, the only illumination provided by the hallway lights. Castiel breathes a sigh of relief for the reprieve on his pupils before he looks around the room. 

He startles at the sight of Dean, immobile and silent, in the chair next to his bed. 

“Did you ever leave?” he asks, not realizing how harsh the question sounds until it leaves his lips. Dean’s flinch is barely perceptible, but Castiel notices everything about Dean. He can’t help himself. “I just meant…” he licks at dry lips, “you must be tired. I don’t want…” He trails off, unsure of where he was even going with that statement. 

_ I don’t want to hurt you anymore.  _

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean says, in the gruff tone which means that, whatever he is, he’s anything but fine. 

Castiel swallows. His eyes turn down to the tiny imperfection in the stiff hospital blanket as he nervously starts to pick it apart. He wants to be able to say something to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between Dean and himself, but he doesn’t know how to take the first step, let alone cross the bridge.

Emotion crowds up high in his throat as he chances a look over at Dean. They used to spend hours talking about everything and nothing, sharing opinions on everything from their preferred ammunition to the relative strengths and weaknesses of prequels and sequels in famous franchises. Now, mountains and canyons exist between them, oceans of words unsaid and emotions unspoken, sins unacknowledged. He looks at Dean and hardly knows him. 

Thousands of questions jostle for position in his brain. Castiel can’t bring himself to ask any of them.  _ How many people did I hurt? How badly did I hurt you? How badly did I hurt Sam? Can you ever forgive me?  _

He doesn’t want to hear the answers to any of them. 

“Do you hurt?” 

Dean’s question shatters the silence. A little piece of Castiel’s heart, still stalwartly clinging to the hope of normalcy, shatters as well. 

“Not really,” Castiel lies. There’s a consistent ache in his gut emanating from his stab wound. Worse is the frantic fear of discovering what atrocities Meg committed in his body. He keeps those worries silent. He can’t indulge in his own fears, not when Dean’s face still bears the marks of his fists. 

Dean’s eyebrows tick upward. The expression itself is familiar enough to send a pang through Castiel’s heart, but there’s none of the usual emotion behind it. Instead, it feels empty, like Dean is playing a record just for background noise. “You’ve got a giant hole in your gut, dude. Not unreasonable to think that you might be hurting. They gave you the painkillers for a reason,” Dean points out. 

Castiel glances with distaste at the button resting innocuously next to him. While Dr. Robinson had assured him that the painkiller was non-narcotic, he still didn’t like the way it felt. The chemicals rushed through his blood and removed rational thought as languid warmth pulsed through his body, taking him higher and higher--

“They make me sleepy,” Castiel says. It’s not a lie. He’d been desperate enough to push the button exactly one time. Almost immediately, he plunged into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Hours later he awoke, somehow feeling more exhausted than he had been before he slept. 

“You could probably stand to sleep a little more. You’re not looking so great either.” 

“It’s been a rough few weeks.” Horror and regret jolts cold through his blood the second the words are out of his mouth. After all his careful tiptoeing around the subject, he just went and put his foot in it. Can’t he do anything right?

“Dean, I didn’t mean--” 

“Cas, I’m sorry.” 

Castiel’s mouth closes with a sharp click. Out of everything he expected from Dean, he never thought an apology would be forthcoming. 

Dean continues. “I couldn’t save you. You were right there, right in front of me, and I couldn’t save you, and if it weren’t for me, you never would have been in trouble in the first place. I knew this would happen, I  _ knew--”  _ He looks at Castiel, eyes wide and agonized. “I told you back at the beginning Cas, I’m poison. I  _ knew  _ something was going to happen, and I kept on anyway, like it didn’t even matter.” 

“Dean,” Castiel croaks, bewildered by Dean’s rant. Somehow, Dean’s gotten it all wrong. Somehow he’s rewritten the story and put himself at fault, which is… “Dean, it wasn’t your fault, there was nothing--” 

“Don’t you see, Cas?” Dean lurches up from his chair, so quickly that it clatters behind him. “If it weren’t for me, you would have never… Meg wouldn’t have…” 

Cold, insidious fear grips Castiel. There’s a wild look in Dean’s eye, one which Castiel knows not to trust. He doesn’t know what Dean is planning, but whatever it is, he wants no part of it. “Dean, don’t--” He cuts himself off when he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s asking Dean to do. Dean’s expression twists in a paroxysm of care and guilt. The care is irrelevant. The guilt means Dean is preparing to do something awful. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dean apologizes. He leans over Castiel, putting his hands on either side of his shoulders. Dean slumps forward, his forehead pushing almost painfully into Castiel’s. Castiel goes almost cross-eyed trying to look up at him. “Cas, you have to believe me, I’m sorry--”

Castiel’s protest is lost as Dean gently slots their mouths together. As always, in the wake of Dean’s affection, Castiel finds himself helpless. He returns the kiss as best he can, grunting as he pushes up into Dean and his stitches protest the movement. 

At his pained noise, Dean rips himself away from Castiel and takes a few steps backward. He looks horrified with himself, touching his lips with shaking fingers before he glances at Castiel. 

Castiel reaches out towards him, too fearful of Dean's panicked plotting to worry about the warning twinge of pain in his stitches. “Dean, please, whatever you’re thinking about, don’t. We can figure it out, please, don’t--” 

“Cas, I’m no good for anyone, but I never wanted to hurt you,” Dean whispers. “I’m so sorry, Cas. It won’t happen again.” 

“Dean, it wasn’t your fault, I know you wouldn’t hurt me, Dean, please--” Castiel reaches out for Dean, trying to grab the hem of his sleeve. He stretches too far and involuntarily cries out, his gut clenching and pulling. He collapses back into the bed, clutching at his stomach and panting with exertion. 

“Don’t you see Cas? You’ll be so much better without me. You don’t need me. You never did.” 

Dean reaches into the blankets. Castiel grabs for his hand, but Dean is like water, ephemeral and untouchable. Castiel’s fingers only ghost over the back of Dean’s hand before he’s pulling away. “Dean, whatever you’re thinking--” Castiel stops as he sees the device in Dean’s hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, before his thumb pushes down on the release valve for the painkiller. 

“No,” Castiel gasps, fighting against the wave of fuzziness attacking his brain. “Dean, please--” 

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats. His thumb mercilessly presses the button. Castiel blinks eyelids which suddenly have ten pound weights attached to them. Oblivion gnaws at the edges of his consciousness, even as Castiel claws to stay awake. If he closes his eyes he’ll never see Dean again, he’ll never--

The last thing he sees is Dean’s agonized regret as he pushes the button a final time. Dean’s kiss tingles on his lips, even as Castiel’s eyes close. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I still regret nothing. 
> 
> Just read the tags, loves. Everything is possible.


	14. victors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on. 
> 
> Hunting is the same as it always was. Other than the constant burden of being alive, there’s no reward in the job and nothing to look forward to. Not even the occasional bar crawl makes him happy. There are too many memories there, too many bodies. He’s supposed to go to the bar and pretend to be fine. He used to be able to pull it off, but now, he doesn’t see the point.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Life goes on. 

Hunting is the same as it always was. Other than the constant burden of being alive, there’s no reward in the job and nothing to look forward to. Not even the occasional bar crawl makes him happy. There are too many memories there, too many bodies. He’s supposed to go to the bar and pretend to be fine. He used to be able to pull it off, but now, he doesn’t see the point. 

The only good news to come out of everything is the lack of demonic activity. With Meg’s defeat, it seems like the remaining demons have gone into a quiet semi-retirement. Bobby occasionally mentions trouble with hell’s least appetizing residents, but for the most part, infestations are few and far between. Bobby never asks them to deal with the demons. Dean doesn’t offer. Let the other hunters find those little black eyed bastards and send them all to hell. He’s done enough. 

Dean pulls into the no-tell motel of the night. He doesn’t bother to wait for Sam as he gets out of the car and enters the room, tossing his bag carelessly across one of the beds. He collapses into the mattress a moment later. Its springs do nothing to soothe the aches and pains in his back. No matter how he twists and turns, he can’t seem to coax them away. At this point, not even Magic Fingers would help. 

A few moments later, Sam enters. Somehow he makes tossing his bag a considered, deliberate act, almost in direct defiance of Dean’s apathy. Dean closes his eyes and ignores the sounds of Sam tossing his belongings around the room. After a while, it seems like Sam is making noise just to disturb him. He moves a lamp just a few inches to the side before he shuffles through a book, flipping the pages back and forth in an unending susurrus of rustling. After Sam clears his throat in a series of several small coughs, Dean’s eyes snap open. 

“You need something?” he barks, glaring across the small room. Sam looks at him guilelessly, blinking in polite confusion. 

“No?” he answers, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows like maybe Dean’s the one with the fucking problem, but doing it so fucking no offensively that it makes Dean’s knuckles itch with the urge to punch him. “Do you?”

Dean lifts his lip in a wordless snarl and turns his back on his brother. 

These petty little power grabs between him and Sam have been happening more and more recently. Dean’s not stupid, he knows this is Sam’s form of punishment, the same as he knows that it lasts indefinitely, until either he begs for mercy or Sam decides he’s atoned for his sins. Given their temperaments, neither option looks likely. However, Sam’s either stupid, petty, or doesn’t realize that any punishment he gives pales in comparison to the punishment Dean endures every morning when he wakes up alone with only cold sheets to comfort him. Worse still are the nightmare dreamscapes which haunt his sleep, ensuring that Dean finds no peace either waking or sleeping. 

But Dean’s never told Sam about his dreams, and Sam is caught deep in his own version of mourning, so their silent, resentful spats continue. Sam’s silent fury has lasted for months, ever since Dean slunk back to the motel room with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, scraped raw and hurt. 

Sam was half asleep, but he looked up from his pillow, blinking bleary eyes at Dean. “What, did they finally kick you out?” he slurred, suppressing a yawn. 

At that moment, the guilt hit Dean like taking a baseball bat to the knees. He staggered forward, only managing to catch himself against the table at the last moment. A shuddering, ragged breath escaped from his throat and it felt as though someone had raked their claws through his torso. Now fully awake, Sam jerked upright. “Dean? Dean, what happened? Is Cas okay?” 

Hearing the worry in Sam’s voice only made the guilt and shame twist more. Sam was going to  _ hate  _ him for this, but it was the right choice. It was the only way to keep Cas safe, the only way Cas would ever have a chance at a normal life. Sam would understand, eventually. 

“I, ah… I left him,” Dean said. He rubbed at his eyes, furious that they would dare tear up. He didn’t deserve to feel this way. He didn’t deserve to mourn over the future and possibilities he’d killed. “We need to go.” 

Sam blinked stupidly at him, his hair still mussed from almost sleep. “What? What do you mean we need…” The meaning of Dean’s words sunk in and Dean watched as Sam’s eyes turned sharp. “You didn’t. Not  _ again.”  _

Dean clenched his jaw and stared down at the chipped formica table. He couldn’t forget Cas’ eyes, how large they’d been in the hollows of his face, or the small sound of his pleas, same as he couldn’t forget the sound the knife made when it slid into Cas’ stomach, same as he couldn’t forget the last, anguished look Cas sent him before Meg took him over. 

So much of Cas’ ruin could be laid directly at Dean’s feet. For once when it comes to Cas, he’s going to do the right thing, what he should have done that first morning. 

“Get your shit packed,” was all he said. 

Things between him and Sam haven’t been right since. 

Sometimes he’s overcome with it all. His regret, his self-loathing, his grief, his yearning—they swell in his chest, to where he can’t breathe without agony, to the point where he wants to throw his head back and scream until his throat bleeds. Dean feels it now, his emotions pushing at the confines of his chest, like a wild animal trying to claw its way out. He chokes on his misery, knowing it’s what he deserves. 

“I’m going out,” Dean finally says when it becomes too much, rolling off the bed and making his way towards the door. He moves quickly so that Sam doesn’t have time to voice a protest, snatching his jacket off the back of a chair. “Don’t wait up.” 

Sam’s voice rises in either concern or complaint. Either way, Dean’s already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. He retreats to the comfort of the Impala, but not even she can soothe him. There are too many memories here, Cas asleep in the backseat, Cas leaning over the front seat to speak to him and Sam, his hands dangling carelessly between them, the side of his pinky just barely caressing the back of Dean’s neck. Cas in the backseat, propped against the door, his foot in the well, jeans pulled down around his thighs. Dean had clambered over him, half drunk and giddy with the memories of his teen years, now reenacted in glorious living color, and ridden Cas into oblivion. 

He coughs and rubs at his nose, checking the rearview mirror before he pulls out of the parking lot. Too many fucking memories riding shotgun, like ghosts nipping at his heels. 

He needed to be drunk about ten minutes ago. 

\---

The bar is just a bar, unremarkable in every way which counts. The patrons are varying degrees of depressing, the beer is varying degrees of flat, and the service is varying degrees of surly. Dean kills the neck of a beer and looks over his shoulder. A lifetime of hustling tells him that the men gathered around the pool table would be easy marks and worth at least half a grand if he plays his cards right, but he doesn’t have the patience for it. 

He finishes off his beer and signals for another. At the opposite end of the bar, two women eye him hungrily. Dean ducks his head and avoids their gaze. If he’s not in the mood for hustling, then he doesn’t know how he would begin to describe his antipathy for prowling. 

He chugs his second beer and then a third. The world turns nicely fuzzy, its harsh edges softening into something almost tolerable. If he could, then he would live like this, all of his problems nicely blunted, the worst parts of his life made bearable by the alcohol coursing through his veins. 

Cas’ voice, so thin and pleading, begging him  _ Dean, no, please…  _ Dean’s heart had broken then and there as he watched Cas fight and ultimately lose the battle for consciousness. Those blue eyes had closed, grief and betrayal shining out of their depths, and Dean had known that he’d finally managed to kill whatever was between him and Cas. There was no coming back from this. Not for him and certainly not for Cas. There was no way Cas could ever forgive him for abusing his trust and weakness that way, no way Cas would ever be able to think of him with even a shred of affection. 

Dean had leaned forward and kissed Cas’ forehead, sweeping the dark hair away from his skin in one last, fond gesture. Warmth spilled out over his chest and through his fingers, lighting him up from the inside out. He’d known then exactly what it was he felt for Cas, known exactly what had driven Cas to turn himself over to Meg and then drive a knife through his gut with no hope of recovery. 

He almost said it. Almost confessed to Cas’ sleeping features. Instead, he’d reached down and taken Cas’ limp fingers in his, giving them one final squeeze before he turned his back and walked away. He never looked back. If he couldn’t say those words when Cas was awake and able to respond, then he certainly didn’t deserve to say them now. He certainly didn’t deserve whatever luxury the coward’s way out could provide. 

Dean bites down on his lower lip in an attempt to banish the memories and the misery which rises with them. It was the right decision to make. No matter what else he feels, he has to believe that. Otherwise, it was all for nothing. 

After four beers, his bladder makes its needs known. Dean sighs and gets up from the bar stool, taking a second as the world reorients itself around him. His vision swims, but he doesn’t care. He’s already determined that there’s no real threat at this bar. He can be as sloppy as he wants. 

The women leer at him as he passes, but he pretends he doesn’t see their predatory gazes traveling up and down his body. The back of his neck prickles, but that’s just because he can feel their eyes lingering on his ass. If this were the good old days, then he might put a little swagger in his hips, might give them the elevator eyes right back, then pair it with a certified panty-dropper grin and wink. If he got lucky he might take them both back to the motel. As it is, he neatly dodges the manicured hand which reaches out for him and does it so smoothly that he vanishes before they can think to mount another offensive. 

He follows the handwritten signs towards the bathroom, slipping between bodies as he goes. After this piss, and maybe another beer or five, maybe he’ll be drunk enough not to care which warm body he falls into. 

And then tomorrow morning he could wake up, hungover, filthy, and hating himself. 

With difficulty, Dean clears those thoughts from his head and opens the bathroom door. The single stall bathroom is pitch black with the only light filtering in through a tiny window. The dim yellow light shines dully off the sink, toilet, and handicapped rails surrounding the toilet. “Great,” Dean slurs, slapping at the wall in the approximate location of the light switch. He hits nothing but a smooth expanse of tiled wall. After three tries, Dean gives it up as a lost cause. 

He steps cautiously forward, grumbling under his breath. If worse comes to worst, then he’ll just pee on the bit of floor that’s closest to the toilet. Not the grossest thing he’s done by a long shot. 

Not even the window is enough to really give him a clear view of the room, but that’s fine. Dean makes his way towards the toilet and stops around where he thinks it would be. He fumbles with his belt and zipper, fingers made clumsy by alcohol. 

The click of a hammer being slid back echoes through the bathroom. Dean freezes, his hands still on his belt buckle. He inches them slowly towards the Colt in his waistband. If he can get his hands on that, then he’ll even the score. 

“Look, buddy, I don’t know how badly you need to use the can, but most people just wait their turn,” Dean tries, before he slams an elbow backwards. 

He strikes blindly, intending to disorient more than harm his faceless opponent. His plan works. The soles of their shoes squeak across the bathroom tile as the person behind him dodges. Dean whirls around. Without a good line of sight on his would be attacker, he’s mostly using his sense of sound and spatial awareness to fight. It’s not his favorite way of doing things, but Dad wanted them to be adept at all forms of combat, so his blows hit more than they miss. 

“Come on, you bastard,” Dean grunts, wrist snapping in a quick punch to where his assailant should be. His hand is batted away, and he growls in frustration. “Ambushing a guy when his pants are down? Low blow.” 

Bad enough to be fighting someone when his bladder was already screaming for relief. Worse when, with every strike, he’s reminded of another fight in another bathroom. He’s distracted, thinking about the outcome of that fight and everything which followed, while simultaneously trying to strangle the slender thread of hope unspooling within him. That’s not for him. Not anymore. 

“Oh, for the love of god,” Dean snarls, after his hands are knocked away for the umpteenth time. “Can’t we just go out into the bar and fight like a couple of derelicts?”

Without warning, the overhead fluorescent light blazes into life. Dean hisses and rears back in surprise. He covers his eyes with his hand, trying to soothe the ache and burn of pupils assaulted with too much stimulus. “Fucking, goddamn,” he mutters, blinking rapidly to force his eyes to adjust. He’s aware that every millisecond he wastes is another opportunity for his mysterious attacker to make a move. 

He lowers his hand, though he’s still forced to squint to compensate for his spotty vision. The son of a bitch is standing with the light to his back, ensuring that Dean can’t make out more than a blurry outline. “Asshole,” Dean mutters, hand fumbling in his waistband for his gun. 

“You’re a little off your game, Winchester.”

Tiny sparks lick down Dean’s spine, burning off the fog of the alcohol. Somewhere deep in him, his stupid lizard brain rejoices.  _ He knows that voice-- _ But that’s impossible. The person that voice belonged to is gone, and this time, Dean made damn sure it was for good. 

“Yeah, well, generally when you come after someone whose fly’s down, you don’t get them at their best. So how about you stand still like a good little asshole, and let me show you exactly how good my game is?”

Though he has a hard time distinguishing the other man’s movements, Dean can still hear him: the small, involuntary breaths, the rustle of clothes against skin, the scrape of a boot against the floor. Dean tries to predict his opponent’s next movements, but he’s still not prepared for the hard, cold press of a gun just underneath his ear. Warm breath puffs out over his ear as that voice, that damnable  _ voice _ almost  _ purrs,  _ “Really? And here, we were having such a nice night.” 

Dean licks at his dry lips, hardly daring to believe what his ears tell him. It’s impossible, and yet… Doesn’t he deal in the impossible every day? Doesn’t he live in the thin space between dreams and reality, where nightmares slip through? Why then, would it be so hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, something  _ good  _ could happen?

Dean swallows and winces. The lump in this throat goes down like a fistful of razors. Finally, his mangled voice croaks out the name he thought he would never say again. 

“Cas?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Staring at Dean Winchester, Castiel’s overcome with several conflicting desires.

First and foremost, he wants to punch Dean right in his stupid, gorgeous face. Time and distance haven’t put a dent in Dean’s frankly otherworldly beauty, and his attractiveness is somehow offensive to Castiel. 

Secondly, and perhaps tangentially related to the first desire, he wants to wrap Dean in his arms and never allow him to escape. 

Underneath the naked fluorescent bulb, Dean looks almost  _ fragile.  _ The harsh light hides nothing: not the dark circles lingering around Dean’s eyes like bruises, not the sharp lines of his cheekbones, or the persistent, uneven stubble clinging to his jaw. Dean’s appearance screams of neglect. His clothes hang off of his body and his hair is flat and greasy against his skull. He looks older and more worn, like he went through the washer too many times and nobody bothered to take him out until it was too late. 

Dean stares at him. His mouth hangs open in an expression which, on anyone else, would be unflattering. Dean somehow manages to make even his shock photogenic, his cheeks coloring enough to bring out the vibrant green of his eyes. 

“Cas?” Dean croaks. The single syllable shakes with emotion. 

“Hello, Dean.” Cas puts all of himself into the two simple words. 

And then he punches Dean in the jaw. 

The blow sends Dean reeling and leaves Castiel’s knuckles tingling. It’s supremely satisfying. 

Dean staggers backward, clutching at his jaw. He catches himself on the sink, looking at Cas with a combination of rage, confusion, and betrayal. “Cas, what the hell?” 

Castiel wastes no time in bringing out his flask of holy water. He splashes a few drops on his hand, twisting his wrist to show Dean his unharmed skin. The silver knife is next. He drags the blade across his forearm in a quick slice. 

Strange to think that he was on the receiving end of these rituals months ago and he didn’t know their purpose. Now they’re second nature, a surer promise than any his mouth can deliver. 

_ I’m here. This is me.  _

“That was for leaving me behind.” Castiel relaxes his fist and shakes out the remaining aches. 

With his act of violence out of the way, he finds himself at a loss. For all of his agonizing and dithering back and forth on which course of action he should take, his plan was fairly simple. He had worked out enough to where he followed and cornered Dean and expressed his displeasure at being drugged and left behind. He hadn’t really thought much beyond that moment. 

Dean solves that problem by barreling forward, his head and arms angled low. Frozen with surprise, and no small amount of delight, Castiel allows himself to be caught around the waist and propelled backward. He grunts as his back collides with the wall, knocking the air out of him. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, you crazy bastard,” Dean breathes, using his bulk to press Castiel against the wall. He’s pinned, and though he could probably work his way free of the hold, Castiel finds himself strangely unmotivated. 

Dean is  _ everywhere.  _ His hips press into Castiel’s while one knee shoves between Castiel’s thighs. A heavy arm presses across his collarbone, warning him against escape. Dean’s other hand fists in the hair at the top of his head, a light tug at his scalp which promises swift retribution should Castiel struggle. 

The thought to break free never crosses Castiel’s mind. 

“Why are you…” Dean ducks his head, his face fitting perfectly in the crook of Castiel’s neck. “You’re back,” Dean says, a little pointlessly, but Castiel understands. 

He haltingly brings his hands up as best he can, considering the awkward positioning of his body, and strokes over Dean’s back and shoulders. “Dean,” he says, his higher thought processes interrupted by the sheer closeness of Dean. He can smell the alcohol and sweat on his skin. The heat of Dean’s body soaks through him. 

“I’m here,” Castiel says, unnecessarily--with Dean pressed up so closely against him, there’s no way Dean hasn’t noticed that fact--but it needs to be said nonetheless. 

Damp spreads across his neck and the collar of his shirt as Dean pants. There’s an additional wetness which doesn’t come from the heat of Dean’s breath, but Castiel doesn’t mention it. His hand spans the hot expanse of the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him closer. He tilts his head to the side, nose running through the short hairs at the side of Dean’s head. Dean shakes. The tremors travel through Castiel’s body. 

“What are you doing,” Dean asks, more statement than question. “Why did you--I told you, Cas, I’m no good, you shouldn’t--” 

With Dean boxing him in so effectively, there’s little retaliation afforded to Castiel, but he makes do with what he has. He nips sharply at the shell of Dean’s ear, punishment instead of enticement, and is mollified when Dean lurches back, one hand clapped to his ear. 

“Shut up,” Castiel tells him. The words spark a memory which he would rather not relive, one that has him helpless and in pain in a hospital bed, while Dean stands over him, implacable and unknowable. Pathetic little pleas escape his lips, but Dean doesn’t pay any attention to them, doesn’t pause to acknowledge him even for a second. 

Castiel covers up his momentary lapse by quirking a brow at Dean. “Problem?” he asks, indicating Dean’s hand, which is still clapped over his ear. 

“You little…” Dean swings a wild punch towards his head, which Castiel easily deflects. “Damn it, Cas!” Dean snarls as he slings his arm around Castiel’s shoulders in a loose hold. “I’m trying to tell you something!” 

“And I don’t want to hear it,” Castiel answers, elbowing Dean neatly in the ribs. 

It takes concentration to deliver blows powerful enough to knock Dean back a few steps, yet not cause any lasting damage. Castiel finds himself grinning halfway through as his body falls into familiar rhythms. He can’t do any lasting harm to Dean, nor Dean to him. Their patterns and tendencies are too closely wired into their muscles. Instead of a fight, it’s almost like a dance, the both of them intimately aware of the other’s steps. 

“You are worth knowing,” Castiel says, ducking inside Dean’s reach. He reaches out and snags one of Dean’s wrists. Dean jerks, but either he’s not trying very hard to win, or he’s drunker than he wants Castiel to know. It’s laughably easy for Castiel to hold onto him. 

It’s even easier for Castiel to snap the cuffs around Dean’s wrist. 

It takes Dean a few seconds to realize exactly what’s happened. By then, it’s too late. Castiel turns him to face the wall, dragging Dean’s other hand behind his back and snapping the cuff closed. With Dean suitably restrained, Castiel leans forward, resting his forehead on the top knob of Dean’s spine. He breathes out, as his arms wrap around Dean’s waist. 

“You remain one of the best things to ever happen to me,” Castiel breathes into Dean’s skin. The words are so soft that he worries if Dean can even hear him, but then Dean shudders, a full bodied shake which travels down from his shoulders to his waist. 

_ “Cas.”  _

The single syllable of his name is exhaled like a prayer. Dean’s voice cracks underneath the pressure. 

“You are worth knowing.” Castiel’s already said it once, but the sentiment bears repeating. “You do everything in your power to make this poor, pitiful world a better place. Every time you come across an injustice or a problem, you try and fix it.” He presses his lips to Dean’s overheated skin and closes his eyes tightly as emotion threatens to overwhelm him. “You are a  _ good man,  _ Dean Winchester.” 

A choked sob falls from Dean’s lips. He’s shaking now, like he was left out in the cold for far too long. A swell rises in Castiel’s chest, one which he knows the name to, but he dares not voice. He knows how he feels, has known it since the moment he, Dean, and Sam were in a clearing in a forest, and the thought came across his mind, fully formed and unchangeable:  _ I cannot lose him.  _

“You’re kind, intelligent, courageous, and I…” Castiel’s breath catches in his throat as he whispers the last bit of his confession into Dean’s skin. “I need you.” 

“Cas,” Dean croaks, his voice ending in a harsh judder. “Cas, I can’t, Cas,  _ please--”  _

Dean’s fingers pluck at the hem of his jacket, the only kind of contact available to him, and suddenly, Castiel can’t stand it. He grapples with Dean’s body. For a moment, Dean’s instincts take over and he fights him, but only for a moment. Then he goes limp and allows Castiel to flip him so that they’re facing each other. 

Castiel’s nose brushes against Dean’s. Dean’s eyes are two brilliant fields, and his mouth is nothing more than a home to which Castiel wants to return. “Cas,” Dean whispers, his gaze flitting between Cas’ eyes and his mouth. “Cas, you can’t…” 

“If you tell me that you don’t want me,” Castiel says, even though the mere thought of Dean sending him away breaks something essential in his heart, “then I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again. You can live the rest of your life.” He leans forward, touching his forehead to Dean’s. “But…” He exhales shakily, feeling like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin. 

Maybe one day he’ll be able to say the words which are trapped on the tip of his tongue. Maybe one day he’ll be able to vocalize the truth pumping through his veins. For now, all he can do is lean in closer to Dean and wrap his arms around him. 

“Don’t go,” Dean croaks, nuzzling against his cheek. “Please, Cas, please--Don’t go, I don’t want you to leave, I need you too--”

Castiel can’t wait any longer. He cups Dean’s cheek in his hand, tilting his head. Dean’s eyes lock on his, his pupils already blown. His intent is clear in his eyes, and Dean is better at reading him than most. “Please,” is all Dean whispers, which is all Castiel needs. 

He puts his lips to Dean’s, gently, like the first breath of morning. It’s not fireworks which light in his belly, but something softer and yet powerful. It’s something deep and eternal, almost like it comes from outside him, yet it’s so intensely personal that he can’t help but feel it in his every breath. 

He knows its name. One day he’ll even tell Dean. 

For now, he loses himself in the push and pull between them, in the slick slide of Dean’s lips against his, the subtle flirt of Dean’s tongue flicking out against his lips. He shoves Dean against the wall, probably harder than he should, considering that Dean’s hands are cuffed behind his back. If Dean has any complaints, he keeps them to himself. 

“Dean,” Castiel moans against Dean’s lips. There’s so much else he could say-- _ I missed you, I thought about you almost every single day, I’m so sorry, I want to be with you until my heart stops beating-- _ but he says none of these. He allows his body to talk for him, speaks devotion with his lips and hands. 

Dean pulls away from him, so abruptly that it leaves Castiel reeling. “You don’t make any more stupid ass demon deals,” Dean warns, his eyes narrowed. “No matter what the cause, you don’t...You can’t…” Dean tips forward, his lips moving against Castiel’s neck as he whispers, “I can’t lose you. Not again.” 

“You won’t,” Castiel says, even though he knows that’s not a promise he can make. He makes it anyway, and vows to keep it as best he can. “I’m with you, for as long as you want me.” 

Dean pushes up into him. Without the use of his hands, it’s difficult, but he slots their bodies together at every available place: his head burrows into the crook of Castiel’s shoulder, his chest pushes against Castiel’s, their hips lock together like puzzle pieces while their legs create a complicated tangle. Castiel never wants to be separated from him again. 

“Cas,” Dean mutters, in between kisses and nips to Castiel’s neck. “Cas, can we go?” 

“Of course,” Castiel answers. He savors Dean’s warmth pressed against him for another moment before he pulls away. 

He grabs Dean by his bicep, tugging gently but firmly, until Dean is standing in front of him. He takes a few steps forward. Dean follows for a few steps before he thinks to register a complaint. 

“Cas, are you gonna take these off?” Dean wriggles and the cuffs clank together. A delicious pink blush covers his cheeks. Castiel wants nothing more than to see that blush spread across Dean’s body. 

“No, I don’t think so.” Castiel taps his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “No, I think it’ll be best if I keep you in them, at least for a little while longer. Gotta keep an eye on you.” 

He smirks at Dean and gets a low grumble of disbelief for his trouble. He has no intention of restraining Dean for any longer than it will take them to reach his motel room. While the thought of laying Dean, still cuffed, across the bed and having his wicked way with him is an undoubtedly appealing one, Castiel wants more. He needs to feel Dean’s hands on him, needs to touch and be touched in return. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t have some fun in the meantime. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean groans, as Cas marches him towards the door. “Seriously?” he continues as they move through the narrow, dark hallway and towards the bar. “You’re really going to do this?” 

Castiel digs his fingers into Dean’s bicep in warning, even as his free hand digs into his back pocket. He flashes the badge, quelling nervous looks with the easy assumption of authority. “No need for alarm,” he says to a woman who looks like she might call the actual police if pushed even an inch closer to the edge. “I’m a registered bail enforcement agent. Under the authority of the state government, I’m taking this man into custody.” She subsides, retreating to the comfort of her seat with a look of mingled horror and excitement. No doubt this is the most interesting thing to happen to her in weeks. 

“Flirt a little harder,” Dean mutters under his breath as Castiel escorts him through the bar and into the cool night. “I don’t think you tried hard enough to get her to soak her panties.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and jerks hard on Dean’s bicep, sending him spinning into the Impala. Her sturdy frame takes the brunt of Dean’s weight with ease. 

“Seeing as it was only intended to rile me up, I’m going to ignore that asinine statement,” Castiel growls, shoving his face next to Dean’s. He bows his head, breathing along Dean’s jaw. The sharp bite of his teeth against Dean’s jaw distracts the hunter from Castiel’s hand dipping into the pocket of his jeans, at least for a few seconds. Castiel gropes in Dean’s pocket, humming happily when he comes up with Dean’s keys. He retreats, dragging his knuckles against the line of Dean’s thighs as he does. Dean’s hips buck up in a vain search for sensation, but Castiel’s hand is already gone, leaving him unsatisfied. 

“Fucker,” Dean accuses. He then looks at his keys in Castiel’s hands and raises his eyebrows. “You gonna uncuff me so that I can drive, or?”

Castiel grins. “I thought I might drive,” he says airily, anticipating the low snarl of rage rumbling from behind Dean’s teeth. 

“I’ve seen how you drive,” Dean says, a warning in his eyes. Castiel’s grin never dims as he reaches behind Dean and pops open the door handle. “Like hell you’re getting behind the wheel of my baby.” 

“Trust me, Dean,” Castiel croons, peppering tiny kisses along Dean’s jaw, all the way to his mouth. “You know I’ll take care of you.” 

And miracle of miracles, Dean looks like he might actually believe him.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this felt a little rushed, but after careful consideration, I decided to keep it. Y'all deserve some happiness and I'm tired of torturing these two babies.


	15. winchesters, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shadow falls across him as the stool to his immediate left is occupied. Castiel glances to his side in vague interest. He licks suddenly dry lips as he takes in the appearance of the man next to him. Bright green eyes gaze appreciatively up and down his frame, leaving tongues of fire in their wake. Plush lips part around the lip of a bottle as the man kills the neck in one long swallow. He tilts his head back, revealing the pale skin of his throat. Castiel’s eyes wander down from the man’s face to look appreciatively on his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Bowed legs bracket the stool, and Castiel can’t help but wish he was between them. 
> 
> “Hey, buddy,” the newcomer says. Castiel flushes, realizing he’s been caught staring. He looks up to the man’s face to see a wide smirk settle on his lips. One eye closes in a salacious wink. “See something you like?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cas’ motel is located on the opposite side of town from theirs, a ten minute drive from the bar. During those ten minutes, Dean takes his eyes off of Cas a grand total of three times. He doesn’t dare even blink, just in case this is all an elaborate hallucination. 

Cas is  _ here. _

In his time as a hunter, Dean’s seen a lot of improbable things: Sam scoring with a girl, the dead rising, and the nun who did a hellishly good striptease. Not to mention the occupational hazards of his job, where he routinely sees the impossible become ordinary. But seeing Cas behind the wheel of the Impala, as calm and steady as ever, is possibly the strangest, most wondrous thing of all. 

Cas came back. He  _ chose  _ Dean, despite everything Dean is, despite everything Dean has done. Cas  _ chose  _ him, and Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wrap his head around that simple fact. It will take him decades to unravel the mystery that is Cas. 

Dean can’t wait. 

By the time Cas pulls into the parking lot of his motel (despite Dean’s perfectly legitimate worry, Cas gets them from the bar to the motel with no major collisions), a dull ache has taken hold in Dean’s shoulders. His muscles aren’t used to the strain of being kept in cuffs, and they rebel against the constraints. There’s also the tension which comes from his anticipation of what comes next, which is made worse by the fact that he doesn’t  _ know  _ what comes next. 

Dean knows what he  _ wants  _ to come next, but he also knows how improbable it is to wish for that. The Meg-shaped elephant still takes up a good bit of real estate in the room, as does the Dean shaped elephant. Impossible to think they could do anything with those obstacles still lingering between them. Then he remembers the possessive curl of Cas’ fingers against his jaw and the heat of him as he pressed close, and hope springs anew. 

With one hand on his bicep, Cas escorts him into the room. Dean’s mind trips merrily through a small jolt of deja-vu. He remembers the seething rage which coursed through him as Cas dropped to his knee and picked the lock of the door, that first night they met. To start from there, and end here, with every molecule of his body yearning for the man next to him… It’s almost more than his fragile body can take.

The second the door closes, Dean crowds into Cas, herding him with hips and shoulders until his back hits the door. It’s hard without his hands, but enthusiasm makes up for almost everything. Cas allows it, his arms greedily pulling Dean closer. 

Dean noses underneath Cas’ jaw and bites at the skin. Stubble burns against his lips, and Cas obligingly tips his head back to allow Dean greater access. A series of low, delighted chuckles rumble through Cas’ chest as Dean drags his lips down Cas’ throat to nose at the collar of his shirt. “Fuck, Dean,” Cas sighs, his fingers threading through Dean’s hair and tugging at the short strands. “God, you feel so good.” 

“Yeah?” Dean closes his teeth around Cas’ throat. He does it gently, so as not to hurt, but keeps enough pressure behind the gesture to keep the threat implicit. Cas whines, shuddering as Dean bites a little harder. Tomorrow, there will be faint impressions of bruises against Cas’ skin. Dean shivers with delight at the thought. “Can I make you feel even better?” 

He shakes his cuffs for emphasis. The sound of their clinking spurs Cas into action. He pulls away from Dean, his eyes wild and cheeks flushed. Cas’ normal grace and care vanishes as he fumbles with the cuffs, missing several times before he manages to fit the key correctly. Finally, growling with impatience, he manages to unlock the cuffs. They clank to the ground and are almost immediately forgotten. 

Dean sighs in relief and rolls his shoulders, thrilled at having the use of his arms once more. He wastes no time in pulling Cas close to him. His hands skim over Cas’ shoulders and down to his chest, waist, and hips. Once he thumbs over the sharp jut of Cas’ hip, Dean retraces his steps, coming to an end at the nape of Cas’ neck where he toys with the soft hair. Meanwhile, Cas’ hands are similarly occupied as they drag down his chest to dip playfully under his shirt. 

“God, I missed you,” Cas mutters between frantic kisses. “Missed you so fucking much.” 

Dean freezes. The Dean-shaped elephant raises its trunk in preparation for disaster, but nothing comes of it. Cas only pulls him closer, his hands sliding around from Dean’s waist to his back. Fire licks up his spine, and Dean groans at the sensation. 

He’s not sure who leads them to the bed, only that they make it there in a tussle of pushing and shoving, mouths and hands tangled until Dean isn’t sure where he ends and Cas begins. Joy pumps through his blood, along with the dizzying sensation of  _ rightness,  _ of everything clicking into place _.  _ This is how it should be, Cas’ lips on his, Cas’ groans spilling into his lungs until he breathes them back out. 

Frantic hands pull his shirts off his body. In no time at all, Dean is bare to the waist and staring up at where Cas straddles his waist. Atop him, Cas is like a wild thing, his hair mussed and eyes over-bright. Dean cups Cas’ cheek and thumbs at the delicate skin just underneath his eye. The weight of the moment crashes into him as Cas leans into the touch. 

“Talk to me,” Dean whispers. His hardening cock screams at him in dismay, demanding to know why he’s thwarting his own pleasure. But he can’t go through with this when Cas’ touch screams of desperation, not just for pleasure but for oblivion. He wants Cas to be  _ present,  _ wants to look into his eyes as he comes, wants to relish every single second of the rest of their lives. He can’t start the rest of their lives with a black stain across the beginning. 

Cas swallows as he closes his eyes. His eyelashes are a dark curtain against his cheek.

“I was so angry,” he says. The words are quiet, almost as though he’s afraid of the power they hold. “I was so…” When he opens his eyes, the expression in them is open and vulnerable. That, more than any sort of accusation, shoots directly into Dean’s heart, filling him with guilt which threatens to overwhelm him. “You had no right to make that decision. You had  _ no--”  _ Castiel swallows, regaining some control over himself. “You should have trusted me.” 

Dean listens to the wounded tone in Cas’ voice and makes no effort to defend himself. All of his excuses and reasoning sound pathetic to his own ears. He can only imagine what Cas would think. “I’m sorry,” is all he can offer, one hand resting at the dip of Cas’ waist. “I thought that I was… You know what? It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong, and I’m so sorry.” 

“I wanted to hate you,” Castiel confesses. He pitches forward, lightly knocking his forehead against Dean’s. “I tried to hate you. For weeks, I did nothing but try. But in the end...all I wanted was you, you prick.” 

A helpless smile crosses Dean’s face, even as his heart rips in half. If he lives for a hundred years, he’ll never be done making his penance to Cas. “I never stopped thinking about you,” Dean whispers. The words are a pale expression of the full depths of his feelings, yet they’re all he can offer. If he could, he would offer everything up to Cas--his every thought and emotion, the very beating of his heart, all served up for Cas’ pleasure. 

Without conscious thought, his hands fall to Cas’ hips. His fingers dip under the barrier of his jacket and shirt to touch warm skin. “Please, Cas,” Dean whispers. “Please, let me take care of you.” 

He and Cas have always done better with the physical, where their hands say what their words can’t. Dean needs this to be true now, needs to press devotion into Cas’ skin, until he can’t breathe without feeling Dean, like the ocean waves tugging at his ankles always beckoning him home. He needs Cas to do the same to him, to crawl so deep inside that he’ll never be able to take a breath without feeling him there. 

Yet Cas hesitates as Dean starts to pull upwards on his clothing, almost flinching away. “I’m not…” he begins, looking off to the side. “I’ve changed.” 

There’s a curious undertow of shame and regret in Cas’ voice. It’s almost enough to make Dean pull his hands away. If Cas gave any indication that he wanted to stop, then he would. But Cas doesn’t stop him. Instead, he meets Dean’s eyes, trepidation and challenge shining alike from his gaze. Dean never takes his eyes off of Cas as he drags his fingers up Cas’ body, taking his shirt with him. 

Dean never contemplated the vulnerability in allowing yourself to be undressed. The moment when Cas lifts up his arms, allowing Dean to incapacitate him, the subsequent loss of his sight and the muffling of sound. The revelation of skin until he’s as bare as a person can become. The trust inherent in the gesture. The communion of it. 

Dean was prepared to see scars littered over Castiel’s skin. He was prepared to witness the ravages of what a demon could do to a human host. He was prepared for any number of horrors. But that’s not what he finds. 

“Oh, Cas,” he breathes, laying a palm flat on Cas’ quivering stomach. “Cas, baby, look at you.” 

Dark, swirling lines of ink cover Cas’ torso. They snake over his shoulders and curve around his ribs. Delicate filigree licks at his collarbones and around his nipples, while almost the entirety of his left pectoral is covered with an anti-possession tattoo. The strong lines of the sun and pentagram stand out against Castiel’s tan skin. Dean traces the lines reverently. 

Castiel shivers. 

Dean runs his fingers across the sigils inked in Cas’ skin. Some he recognizes, while others are a mystery. He pauses on a line of strange characters, placed low on Cas’ stomach, almost kissing his hip. 

“Protection,” Cas rasps, his already deep voice utterly  _ wrecked.  _ “They’re in Enochian, the language of the angels.”

_ No such thing,  _ comes the immediate retort, but Dean stoppers it as he instead connects the characters through abstract lines. Above him, Cas restlessly shifts, like he wants to press into Dean’s hands but he’s restraining himself. 

Dean doesn’t pause his exploration until his fingers drift over the skin of Cas’ lower belly. There, he pauses, caught by the feeling of puckered skin, thick and raised. He swallows down the taste of bile and panic and ducks his head, already knowing what he’ll find. 

His thumb rests in the center of a knot of scarred tissue. The scar is smaller than he was expecting, about the length and width of his thumb, the skin puckered and stark white. Dean strokes his thumb over it, his breathing quick and harsh as he remembers those few terrible seconds when he knew, he just  _ knew  _ that Cas was gone…

“Dean.” From the impatient bite in Cas’ voice, Dean knows this isn’t the first time Cas has called his name. Long fingers wrap around his hand and bring his fingers up to Cas’ mouth. Warm breath, so at odds with the chapped skin of his lips, washes over his digits as he speaks. 

“My choice. I don’t regret it, and I’d make it again if I had to. You were worth it. You  _ are  _ worth it.” 

Dean shudders. His fingers slip along Cas’ mouth before they dip inside, hooking behind his teeth. Cas’ tongue slides along the digits, warm, wet, and utterly enticing. Dean’s hips buck up into Cas, seeking friction and sensation. Teeth scrape across his knuckles before Cas releases his fingers with a soft pop. 

“I want you,” Cas says, blunt and to the point as always. 

Dean’s hand rests on Cas’ side, various sigils spiraling out from underneath his palm. A forest of protection twists across his torso, armor against the various horrors of the world. As so many things in this world are, it’s an empty gesture, born of hope and defiance. But it’s enough. 

Dean drags his knuckles down Castiel’s arm until he tangles their fingers together. He brings their clasped hands to his lips, kissing the places where their fingers knit together. “Only if you’re sure,” he says. 

He didn’t mean to make the statement overly symbolic, but the instant the words leave his mouth, he knows that he’s talking about more than just sex. 

From the sudden gravity on his face, Cas understands. He bumps his forehead against Dean’s. “I told you,” Cas whispers, “I’m staying for as long as you want me.” 

In order to look at Cas, Dean has to go a little cross-eyed, but it’s worth it, it’s so worth it to see happiness spark in Cas’ eyes. In the face of that, what else can Dean do but tilt his head and kiss him? 

There’s no way it can be this easy. If he looks past this moment, Dean knows it’s not:  _ I’ve changed,  _ Cas had said. Dean knows it’s not just the tattoos he was talking about. Normal, well-adjusted people don’t cover their bodies in esoteric symbols from half a dozen world religions in an attempt to keep themselves safe. During those months he spent with Meg, something broke in Cas, and Dean’s not sure it’s something he’s able to fix. He isn’t sure he  _ should  _ fix it, even if he was able. 

Cas has changed, which is fine. Dean’s not the same as he once was. Maybe, once upon a time, it would have bothered him that he and Cas are never going to be the same people they once were. He would have felt like something was stolen from him. 

Now? 

Dean works at the buckle of Cas’ belt, never taking his eyes away from Cas’ face. There’s a surety of purpose, held in Cas’ eyes, the kind of faith which Dean has never been able to grasp for himself. However, staring into the depths of Cas’ eyes, Dean finally feels it for Cas. No matter what, he wants Cas with him. Whoever Cas is now, he’s made his peace with it. And Dean can learn to do the same. 

Through a series of fumbling acrobatics, he and Cas divest themselves of boots, jeans, and boxers. Dean settles on his back against the pillows, tossing his head back as Cas clambers into his lap. Sweat-slick skin slides together, the tease too much and not near enough. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans. It’s perhaps not the sweetest thing he could say, but it’s certainly the most heartfelt. His hands run up Cas’ back to map the territory across his ribs, his spine. Muscles ripple underneath his skin as Cas rocks against him. Cas cradles Dean’s head between his hands, like Dean is something precious and worth protecting, and kisses him breathless. The world narrows to Cas’ hands on his cheeks, Cas’ knees squeezing his hips, Cas’ ass rocking back against the hard line of his cock. 

“Want you,” Cas pants, licking along his ear. “Want you inside.” 

Dean’s cock twitches against the swell of Cas’ ass as a wave of lust overtakes him. “Yeah,” he says, biting kisses into Cas’ collarbones. Already, small bruises bloom across Cas’ skin, like a necklace. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

They separate in a tangle of limbs, searching for lube. Dean curses as Cas’ knee winds up in his side, and Cas returns the sentiment when Dean’s elbow lands close to a squashy part of Cas’ anatomy. Dean apologizes by wrapping his fingers around Cas’ ankle and dragging his lips up Cas’ leg, worshipping the thick muscle with his lips and hands. He lays his hands flat on Cas’ smooth inner thighs, spreading his legs wide. He smooths his thumbs into the crease of Cas’ pelvis, brushing against dark, wiry hair without touching what Cas so dearly wants him to touch. 

Cas arches his back in invitation before he props himself up on his elbows, looking down his body towards Dean. Sparks flare in the pit of Dean’s belly. Cas looks like the picture of sin itself as he pulls his knees up towards his chest, further exposing himself. Dean drops his head and nuzzles at Cas’ groin, licking delicately at his balls. Above him, Cas groans, tipping his head backward as Dean rubs at his perineum. 

“Stop teasing, you asshole,” he grits, patience finally running thin when Dean amuses himself by placing kitten licks at the seam of his balls and the base of his dick. 

Dean ducks his head and grins.  _ You wanna see an asshole?  _ His thumbs spread Cas’ cheeks wide as he flattens his tongue over the furled hole nestled between them. 

Cas’ thighs clamp tight around his head. Due to that, he doesn’t quite hear the noise Cas makes, but he knows enough to know that it is  _ wrecked.  _ He can  _ feel  _ the deep groans rumbling through Cas’ body, like Dean reached into the furthest part of him and drew them out. 

Dean loses himself in the feel of Cas underneath him, his thighs quivering and tightening around his head. His muscles tremble as Dean spreads him further. He flicks the point of his tongue over Cas’ hole, relishing in the high, thin cry he gets in return. The salt tang of Cas, musky and dark, spreads across his tongue like the sweetest drug. Fingers twist in his hair and Cas’ hips rock as he tries to spear himself on Dean’s tongue. Small, breathy exhalations reach Dean’s ears as he sucks a long, wet kiss into Cas’ flesh. 

“Dean,” Cas gasps when Dean points his tongue and pushes inside just the barest amount. “Dean, please.” 

It’s a conundrum to be sure: on the one hand, Dean could happily lay between Cas’ legs from now until eternity, reducing him to a sloppy, shaking mess. On the other hand, his dick is hard enough to pound nails and at some point that’s going to be a problem. 

Cas solves that problem with a quick, vicious tug on his hair, hauling him up. Dean has just a moment to appreciate him—legs spread wide, hard cock flushed an angry red and leaking onto his stomach, lips swollen and pink from where he’s been biting them, sweat dappling his chest and stomach—before his eyes fall to the crook of Cas’ elbow. 

There, nestled in amongst the dark curls of ink winding up his bicep, are four fresh marks. 

Dean deflates. The cold shock of guilt hits him harder than a frigid shower. He grabs Cas’ arm, twisting it to get a better look. The marks aren’t brand new, but Dean spent long hours cataloguing every scar on Cas’ body, and he doesn’t remember these. 

He hears Cas calling his name, warning in his tone, but he ignores him.  _ Your fault, your fault, your fault  _ beats through his brain, an incessant rhythm of failure and guilt he’s marched to since he was four years old. Nothing he does ever turns out right—he thought he was protecting Cas by leaving him behind, but all he did was shove him back into a cold world that didn’t care about his trauma.

A choked sob rises in Dean’s throat as he stares at those four, damning little scars. 

_ “Dean.”  _

He yelps as the world tilts sideways. He flails at Cas for purchase, but doesn’t find it until they come to a stop with their positions reversed. Cas straddles Dean’s hips, pinning him to the mattress. Dean shuffles backward as best he can, leaning against the headboard as he looks at the marvel in his lap. Cas looks fierce, hair and eyes wild. He looks strong, powerful. The tattoos on his chest turn him into something otherworldly, something powerful that mere mortals could only dream of. 

“Are you going to listen to me now?” Cas asks, a little too snottily in Dean’s opinion. When Dean offers no resistance, Cas loosens his grip and reaches out towards his face. Dean can’t help but flinch, sure that Cas has finally come to his senses, but instead Cas’ lays his palm flat and warm across his cheek. 

“I know what’s going through that pretty head of yours, and I’m pissed that you decided to stop right in the middle of some pretty phenomenal sex to have a meltdown. This,” he waggles his arm like there could be any confusion in Dean’s mind as to what he means, “isn’t your fault.” 

“I left you. You needed me and I  _ left.” _

Cas doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a close thing. “Yes, you did.” He leans closer. Dean has to go a little cross-eyed just to look at him. “This didn’t happen because you left me. It happened because I’m an addict. And that was something that happened a long time before I met you, so I’m not allowing you to take the blame for that. Would this have happened if you’d stayed? Honestly, I don’t know. But I know it didn’t happen because you left.” 

Cas glances down at his arm, contemplating the marks. Something happens in those moments because, when he looks back at Dean, Cas falters. “I told you. I’m not...I’m not what you remember. I know that I’m not… This isn’t what you signed up for, so I’ll understand if you want to leave. I...” 

Dean can only guess what sins Cas is going to confess. Mood swings, depression, panic and anxiety? Nightmares? Is he jonesing for his next hit? 

Dean doesn’t care. 

He angles Cas’ head towards his, and their lips meet in a kiss more sloppy than romantic. Cas moans, his tongue tangling with Dean’s as he grabs at his shoulders and presses bruises into his fair skin. 

“I just want you,” Dean says, drawing back just long enough to give them both a chance to breathe. “I don’t care about anything else, I just want you, please, Cas, please—“

“Have me,” Cas whispers, his pupils huge and lust blown. He reaches behind him to stroke his fingers over Dean’s cock, which is just now getting the message that it’s still needed. “Take me, have me,  _ god, _ I want you so fucking much—“

Cas fumbles for the lube, but it’s Dean who gets there first, slicking his fingers in a hasty scramble. Maybe later, he’ll tease and torment, take Cas to the edge again and again before he allows him to come on nothing but his fingers. But for now, he wants to be as close to Cas as it’s possible for two humans to be. He wants to feel Cas from the inside out, wants Cas to surround him, to  _ own _ him. 

They both groan in tandem as his fingers sink into Cas up to the knuckle. Cas rocks against his hand, head tossed back as he bites his lip. Words spring to Dean’s lips, none of which are appropriate for the moment. He stops them by putting his mouth to Cas’ chest, biting at the inked skin. 

He fingers Cas for as long as his patience will allow, brushing playfully against his prostate in teasing little strokes. Cas groans, his face a mixture of delight and frustration, as he starts to loosely jack his cock. Dean bats his hand away, drawing an outraged noise from Cas. 

“Soon, baby,” Dean promises, shifting Cas atop his lap. His cock presses into the curve of Cas’ ass, smearing precome across his skin. He presses the head of his cock against Cas’ loosened hole, delighting in the tease. His own hand is a delicious torture, but it’s not nearly enough.

He’s just about to start the slow slide in when Cas grabs his wrist. Dean tilts his head in confusion. “Condom,” Cas says, his voice harboring no room for argument. 

Dean swallows, a little stung by the unspoken accusation. “I haven’t…” He directs his gaze to Cas’ chest. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Not since you.”

Cas’ face breaks out into a sunny, wondrous smile. “That’s very flattering, but I was thinking of myself.” Once again, Dean’s eyes are drawn towards the crook of Cas’ elbow. “I haven’t been tested since the last time I… I’ll get tested, but for now—“

Dean cuts Cas off with a short, heated kiss. He’s not going to cause a stink over a thin barrier of latex, not when Cas’ skin is hot and sweaty against his. The condom rolls over his cock, and then Cas rises up on his knees, shuffling forward to angle himself properly. He leans towards Dean, one hand reaching around to open himself up. Working by touch, Dean pulls at Cas’ ass, baring his slick hole, while he grasps the base of his cock. He urges Cas down with gentle touches, murmuring encouragement and endearments all the while. 

Cas’ mouth drops open as the head of Dean’s cock breaches his rim. He pants in short, harsh gasps as he sinks down, taking Dean into him in a long, slow slide. Dean tips forward, his head resting on Cas’ chest as Cas settles into his lap. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ Dean groans, fingernails digging into Cas’ hips. Cas is scorching heat and tight squeeze, muscles fluttering around Dean’s length as he adjusts. Tiny whimpers fall from Cas’ lips as he shifts, his small motions seating Dean further inside him. “God, Cas, you—“ Dean trails off, too overcome with sensation to do anything as superfluous as breathe, let alone speak. 

Cas clenches around him, pulling a strangled moan from Dean. His arms wrap loosely around Dean’s shoulders as he tilts his head to kiss him sweetly. It’s a little incongruous with his dick shoved balls deep in Cas’ ass, but Dean returns it all the same. “You’re very romantic,” Cas says, rocking his hips to start a halting rhythm. “Waiting for me. Keeping chaste.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean snarls, bucking his hips upward. Cas’ laugh turns into a shaky moan as he slams himself down on Dean’s cock. 

“That is the general idea, yes,” Cas says, grinning at him. If Cas is coherent enough to be a sarcastic asshole, then Dean obviously isn’t doing his job well enough. 

He slaps at Cas’ ass, the sting traveling through his hand. The sound is sharp, but Cas’ startled yelp is even louder. Cas’ ass squeezes around his cock, and Dean swears, loudly and fervently. He thrusts into Cas’ inviting heat, his eyes rolling back in his head as he drowns. 

Cas’ arms clutch him tightly, pulling their bodies close together. “Fuck, Dean,” he whines. His thighs tense, lifting him up a few inches before he drops back down. 

Pleasure rakes down Dean’s spine as Cas fucks himself with a swift, relentless pace. He already knows he’s not going to last long, bliss licking at the edges of his awareness, orgasm tugging from just behind his balls as they tighten. 

“Cas,” he warns, hands landing on those perfect hips as he helps Cas move up and down. “Cas, I’m gonna…Fuck, Cas, you feel so fucking good, gonna make me come...”

“Good,” Cas pants, his blunt nails digging into the skin at the base of Dean’s neck. “Want to feel it, want you to fill me up, come in me, Dean, come on—“

Dean gets his feet flat on the bed and secures his hold on Cas before he thrusts up into him. The new angle does wonders for Cas. He tilts his head back and howls, clutching at Dean’s shoulders as he rolls his hips down. Precome drools out of his cock, smearing messily across Dean’s stomach. 

“Yeah, that’s it sweetheart, fucking love you, you take it so sweet,” Dean babbles, drunk with lust. Cas is a wild thing atop him, using his shoulders for leverage to push down as he undulates his hips, taking Dean harder and deeper. His teeth are bared, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and his hair. 

“Look so fucking good, feel so tight around me, fuck, fuck,  _ Cas—“  _

Small whines escape Cas’ throat as his rhythm falters. He closes one hand over his leaking cock, stripping it in uneven strokes. He’s shaking, on the edge, needing just the smallest push to send him toppling over. 

Dean kisses him, one hand curled around Cas’ jaw to keep their lips pressed together. Dean pulls away, just enough for him to breathe. His lips still brush Cas’ and he whispers, “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Just look at you, fucking glorious. Come on, Cas, come for me. Come all over me.” 

With a helpless cry, Cas obliges. Dean kisses him through his climax, stripes of white splashing across his stomach as Cas quakes through the height of pleasure and into the aftershocks. He murmurs obscenities and praises as his hand slows on his cock, eventually slumping forward into Dean. 

Dean practically vibrates with the strain of keeping himself motionless. The need to come is almost overwhelming, subsuming everything until all he feels is the ache and tug behind his balls. Cas’ fingers trace over Dean’s face, gentle touches that only barely betray the edge of his oversensitivity. 

“So good for me,” Cas tells him, kissing at his temple. He rolls his hips in a languid pace, more to entice than fulfill. “So good, Dean.” 

Dean’s fingers clamp down on Cas’ hips as he bucks into Cas’ pliant body. “Cas, I need…” He’s strung out and on the edge, every molecule in his body screaming for relief. 

“I know. I know.” Cas tightens around him, drawing a choked moan out of Dean. “Take it. Take what you need.” 

The synapses in Dean’s brain all fire at once. After that, he’s not fully cognizant of his actions. All he knows is that somehow, Cas ends up on his back, limbs sprawled across the mattress in an artless tumble. He smiles lazily, sweeping away some of the dark hair which has flopped into his eyes. Dean crawls between Cas’ legs, almost desperate with need. He hooks Cas’ knees over his elbows, pulling him forward and up into his lap. One of Cas’ legs rests atop his shoulder, and Dean turns his face into it, pressing a kiss to the sweaty skin just inside Cas’ knee. 

“Come on, Dean,” Cas says, just short of a taunt. “Take it.” 

He doesn’t need more encouragement. Dean shuffles forward, gripping the base of his cock with one hand. He finds Cas’ slick rim and pushes forward in a single, inexorable thrust. Cas groans and arches his back while Dean can only drop his head forward. Cas is just as slick and welcoming the second time as he is the first, his body pliant and loose after orgasm.

He thrusts without skill or design, intent upon chasing his pleasure. Underneath him, Cas grunts and murmurs praise, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrist as Dean thrusts into him. 

“I love the way you feel,” Cas says. The brilliant blue of his eyes is overpowering, and Dean is helpless to look away. A soft smile graces Cas’ lips. “Come, Dean.” 

A wash of white overtakes Dean’s vision as he comes. His head drops forward, helpless curses and praise spilling from his lips as he grinds deeper into Cas. Cas pulls him down into a sweaty embrace, his hands smoothing over the planes of Dean’s back and shoulders. Dean rides out the last waves of his orgasm with his face pressed into Cas’ shoulder, sobbing out his pleasure. Cas draws abstract lines across his skin while trailing idle kisses across whatever skin is available to him. 

For his part, Dean can’t stop touching Cas. He kisses Cas’ shoulders and across his collarbone, pausing at the necklace of bruises he’s sucked into Cas’ skin. If it weren’t for the fact that Cas can’t stop touching him as well, Dean would feel clingy. 

Dean’s softening cock slips out of Cas as he shifts. The action draws a disgruntled moan, but Cas makes no other complaint. He wrinkles his nose as he disposes of the condom before he gratefully returns to Cas’ embrace. Underneath his cheek, Cas’ chest is sturdy and strong. Dean lays his head against the tattooed skin and listens to the steady beat of Cas’ heart. He closes his eyes and finds himself wishing that he could live in this moment for the rest of his life, brother and hunting be damned. 

“Dean,” Cas finally rumbles. His soft strokes slow before they come to a gradual stop. Dean doesn’t bite back his whimper of discontent in time. Cas chuckles and resumes his gentle touches, chasing shivers across Dean’s skin. “I know what I said earlier, but I also wanted to say.” He stops and is silent for so long that if it weren’t for the unceasing caresses, Dean would wonder if he fell asleep. “If you try and leave me again because you assume you know what’s best for me, then the next time I find you, I will cuff you and beat you within an inch of your life.” 

The words are said teasingly, but there’s a painful shred of truth in them that cuts right to the quick. With a sick little lurch of his stomach, Meg’s accusations rocket through his skull. 

_ Oh, I’m so sad, I killed my brother and I used to be a filthy junkie! I’m so useless and pointless that I went crawling after someone who ditched me after a single night because I couldn’t find anyone else willing to put up with my pathetic ass! Please Dean, if you take me in, I’ll suck your dick real good! _

At the time, Dean had thought the words nothing more than petty cruelties meant to hurt both him and Cas, but now… With Cas suddenly tense underneath him, Dean’s not so sure. 

He draws back enough to look at Cas’ eyes. “Cas, if I’m ever stupid enough to leave, I’ll fucking help you.” 

Cas’ leg draws up his side before he hooks it over Dean’s ass and lower thighs. Dean spares just a moment to marvel at Cas’ flexibility before he’s being flipped over onto his back. Cas grins down at him, kind and wonderful and so gloriously alive that it makes Dean’s heart sing. 

“Shower?” he suggests, raising his eyebrows suggestively, and Dean can only draw him down for a searing kiss. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**epilogue**

  
  


Castiel Novak sits at the bar, wincing as a Top 40 pop song screeches across his last nerve. The beer in front of him has long since gone flat in his bottle. He idly wipes a few drops of condensation off of the glass with his thumb. The rickety stool creaks alarmingly whenever he shifts his weight, leading to him trying to hold perfectly still whenever possible. The bar itself is unpleasantly sticky, a fact of which Castiel is reminded when he accidentally lays his hand down on its surface. He draws his hand away from the bar with a disgusted grimace and looks around the small bar. 

Castiel quickly skims his eyes over the patrons, careful not to pay particular attention to any one person or group. None strike his notice as being more nefarious than anyone else, though several of them look generally unpleasant. Still no sign of the creatures which brought him to this bar in the first place. 

A shadow falls across him as the stool to his immediate left is occupied. Castiel glances to his side in vague interest. He licks suddenly dry lips as he takes in the appearance of the man next to him. Bright green eyes gaze appreciatively up and down his frame, leaving tongues of fire in their wake. Plush lips part around the lip of a bottle as the man kills the neck in one long swallow. He tilts his head back, revealing the pale skin of his throat. Castiel’s eyes wander down from the man’s face to look appreciatively on his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Bowed legs bracket the stool, and Castiel can’t help but wish he was between them. 

“Hey, buddy,” the newcomer says. Castiel flushes, realizing he’s been caught staring. He looks up to the man’s face to see a wide smirk settle on his lips. One eye closes in a salacious wink. “See something you like?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you and Sam supposed to be ‘casing the joint’?” He barely manages to avoid putting finger quotes around the last part of his sentence. Only the bartender’s observation and the memory of Dean’s mockery stops him. 

Dean rolls his eyes before he snatches Cas’ beer from between his fingers. He finishes off the bottle, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Seriously? How can you even say that with a straight face? You sound like a bad detective movie.”

Castiel looks over his shoulder in a casual gesture. When he turns back around, he kicks Dean low on his shin. Hopefully, he manages to make it look like an accident.  _ Asshole,  _ Dean mutters under his breath, his voice pitched so low that only Castiel hears him. 

A shadow falls over both him and Dean. Being familiar with this shadow, Castiel doesn’t react beyond a guilty squirm. 

“If you two are done making googly eyes at each other, the vamps just left with their next future victim.” Sam’s voice is low as he speaks out of the corner of his mouth. He flags down the bartender and tosses down a twenty in his sight. 

Castiel leans over to bump his shoulder into Dean’s. To the rest of the world, they look like two people about to embark on a night of debauchery. And, if Castiel plays his cards right, that may very well happen. But for now, duty calls. 

“If I take the back exit and you and Sam take the front and side exits, we can cut them off before they get far.” 

“Sounds good,” Dean murmurs. Taking advantage of their position, he breathes over the sensitive shell of Castiel’s ear. “Bet you I’ll get more than you.” 

Castiel grins, feeling something sharp and predatory in him awaken at the challenge. “Well, what do I get if I win?” 

Dean’s teeth nip at his earlobe, drawing a stuttered gasp out of him. “Well, there is that vibrator we bought the other day. Could be fun.” 

Castiel clenches his fist in reign in his sudden arousal. The thought of Dean, writhing on the bed as he’s caught in the throes of pleasure is overwhelming. 

Sam’s harsh cough acts as a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. “Can you two keep it in your pants for like five minutes?” he growls, eyes already on the exit. “People could be dying.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off of Castiel. Fire flickers behind green, igniting Dean in such a way that it steals the breath from Castiel’s lungs. “Keep your pants on, Sammy.” 

While Sam’s intrusion in Castiel’s fantasies was an unwelcome shove back into the real world, Castiel uses it as a catalyst to action. He pushes away from the bar, leaving behind a bill to cover his and Dean’s drinks. “Game on,” he murmurs to Dean before he heads for the back door. 

While it’s hard to hide a machete underneath his jacket, it’s not impossible. It does bump uncomfortably against his armpit and ribs, which is obnoxious, but the alternative is worse. He waits until he’s past the crowds and ducking out of the back entrance before he draws it out of the holster which Dean had made specifically for him. The weight of the blade is familiar in his hand as he keeps close to the wall of the bar and out of the flickering light of the streetlamps. 

Back here, the odors of the dumpsters are almost overwhelming with the stench of rotting food, stale alcohol, and vomit. Castiel wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth. He filters out the sounds of exhaust fans and traffic and listens for the unmistakable sounds of a fight. 

“Hey! What the hell are you--” 

The high-pitched squeal of protest cuts off abruptly. Castiel moves, quickly and efficiently, through the flotsam and jetsam of the alley, jumping over trash as he moves towards the sound of the disturbance. 

He arrives into a scene straight from someone’s nightmares. A young girl is pinned to the wall and surrounded by three men. She struggles, but one of the men claps his hand over her mouth, cutting off her screams. The sight of it sparks a livid rage in Castiel. He knows, all too well, what it feels like to be helpless. He never wants anyone else to be put in that same situation, to know the terror and shame which were his for seemingly endless months. 

“Hey!” he snaps, stepping into a circle of light. The vampires’ eyes turn to him. The light catches their pupils which reflects eerily back to him. The closest vampire hisses, pulling his lips back to reveal fangs. 

“Back off,” one of them says, voice garbled and thick. 

Desperate eyes roll towards him, blind panic reflected in their depths. Castiel can sympathize with the woman all too well. He grips the hilt of the machete tighter, the grip rubbing against his palm. 

He’s moving before he realizes exactly what he’s doing. All he sees is the terror in the girl’s eyes, the knowledge that this time, she might not make it back. All he can feel is the crushing weight of his own horror and desperation, how his throat shredded with the force of his screams. He slices through the neck of the first vampire, spattering the wall and his wrist with blood. The vampires release the girl and turn on him, moving as a single unit. He ducks the first blow before a fist slams into his spine, driving him to his knees. He gasps, lungs clutching for air which refuses to come. 

“Cas!” 

Dean’s voice is a distraction, drawing the vampires’ attention off of Castiel and towards the mouth of the alley. He uses their lapse in judgement to get back onto his feet. He catches the slowest vampire by surprise, elbowing him in the gut. By that time, Sam and Dean have descended on the scene. 

Castiel’s world becomes a blur of violence. The sound of fists striking flesh echoes through the narrow alley, but he can’t concentrate on Sam and Dean now. He loses himself in the rhythm of the fight, bloodlust crowding up his throat and coursing through his hands. He doesn’t return to himself until the last head falls to the ground with a dull, hollow sound. 

Panting, Castiel turns to the girl. She’s still huddled against the wall, whimpering softly as she looks at the carnage around her. She meets his eyes and visibly flinches. Castiel doesn’t blame her. Every time he moves, drying blood pulls at his skin. If he looks half as wild and unhinged as he feels, then he knows he must look frightful. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. He shakes as much blood off of his machete as possible before he slides it back in the sheath. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out high-pitched and strangled. “What were--Were those--” Terrified eyes glance down at the decapitated bodies. The beginnings of a scream are caught in her throat, ready to explode and bring the whole city down around them. 

Sam steps forward and blocks her view of the carnage in a single smooth motion. Meaningless platitudes come out of his mouth in soothing tones, almost like he’s comforting a skittish horse. If Castiel tried, he could hear the individual words, but he’s more concerned with Dean’s hand on his shoulder. 

“You all right?” 

Castiel represses his sight, but a little of his frustration must show on his face. Dean’s hand flinches on his shoulder, though it doesn’t leave.

Dean means well, Castiel knows, and he’s no stranger to the same concern and worry shining in Dean’s eyes. This desperate desire to protect is an inevitable byproduct of their lives, created from the muck and terror of wanting, of  _ needing,  _ to keep their loved ones safe. There are nights when all Castiel wants to do is wrap himself around Dean and shelter him from the slightest of harms. 

What manifests as a desire in Castiel is almost a compulsion in Dean. Dean  _ needs  _ to keep the people around him safe. However, it’s not wholly for Dean’s sake that he reaches up and squeezes Dean’s fingers. Castiel draws comfort from that swift touch, even as he looks at the bodies littering the alley. Sam escorts the girl away, looking meaningfully at the bodies and then back at them. 

“Typical,” Dean sighs, setting his own blade aside. At a look from Castiel, he explains. “Sam gets the cute girl, we get the bodies.” 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel pants, straightening up from dragging the headless vampire corpse further into the alley. “Did you want to go with the cute girl?”

Dean flashes him a grin. Somehow, even with his face covered in gore and viscera, he still manages to be charming. “Aw, baby, don’t get jealous,” he croons, lifting one end of the corpse while Castiel lifts the other. “You know you’re the only one I want.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. A delighted wriggle of pleasure squirms through him at the words, but he’ll be damned if he lets Dean see it now. “Can we just finish dumping the bodies into the dumpster?” he asks, grunting as he and Dean sling the first body up and into the trash. 

“And they say romance is dead,” Dean mutters, dragging a body towards the dumpster by its ankles. “You know, one day, I’m going to make you take me out someplace nice. Well, not  _ nice _ nice. But it’s definitely going to be nice enough to have weird draft beers on the menu. You’re going to pay for my meal, there’s not going to be any fighting, and you’re going to take me back to the motel where I may or may not sleep with you, depending on how gentlemanly you’ve been all night.” 

Castiel pauses. His eyes trail leisurely over Dean’s body, slowly enough to bring Dean’s actions to a grinding halt. “What?” Dean snaps, a little self-consciously, when Castiel doesn’t allow him even the reprieve of blinking. 

“Or,” Castiel begins, stalking towards Dean in a measured pace guaranteed to send Dean’s blood rushing south, “we could  _ not _ do that, and when we get back to the motel, I’ll show you just how  _ ungentlemanly _ I can be.” 

Dean’s eyes flick from his eyes down to his lips and back up again. “Yeah,” he says, voice dropping at least three octaves. “Why not skip the trailers and head right to the movie?” 

Heat rises in Castiel’s blood, sensual and indolent. He breathes it deep and savors it. Their lives will never be perfect. He and Dean hit their rocky patches more often than not, in those moments when Dean seems intent upon smothering him while Castiel throws himself at the iron bars of Dean’s concern, sometimes to the point of recklessness. Their sleep is haunted by nightmares, dreadful, vicious things which sink their teeth into the both of them and hurtle them away from the peace of sleep and into the cold slap of wakefulness. 

Every time he catches a glimpse of his torso out of the corner of his eye in a mirror, it reminds Castiel that he can never be what he once was. Neither he nor Dean can return to their former selves. Whatever they might have been, that future is destroyed. However, it doesn’t mean that their futures are ruined. Together, he and Dean have gathered the scattered pieces and managed to create a life. 

Castiel advances and Dean retreats until his back hits the wall. With nowhere left to go, he looks up at Castiel, his eyes a mixture of yearning and challenge. Castiel’s hands fall naturally to Dean’s waist, and he slips his fingers underneath the hem of his shirt to touch bare skin. Judging from the hitch in Dean’s breathing, he has no plan to stop him. Castiel leans forward, teasing at the skin of Dean’s jaw. He’s just about to capture Dean’s lips when--

“Oh,  _ gross, _ for the love of God! Can you two not keep it in your pants long enough to get rid of the bodies? And have you considered how disgusting it is that you were about to get freaky right over the headless bodies?” 

Dean rolls his eyes, looking at Sam over Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s a beautiful, natural act Sammy. Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to deflower some beautiful creature over a stinking pile of vampire corpses.” 

“Aw, you think I’m beautiful?” Castiel pecks a kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose. “Though I’m not sure of the deflowering. I’m not sure there’s any parts left of me to deflower.” 

“Cas, I thought better of you,” Sam snaps, dragging a vampire towards the dumpster with nothing more than spite to fuel his actions. “I had faith in you.”

“Well, that was probably your first mistake,” Castiel answers blithely. 

He and Sam share a private look once Dean’s back is turned. Castiel knows that he has Sam to thank as much as Dean for his current life. Sam has been there through every pitfall and struggle, through nightmares and fights. It’s Sam’s unwavering steady temper which has kept him and Dean from falling apart more than once. 

And even though he’ll never acknowledge it, even though they’ll never speak of it, Castiel knows what Sam did. Upon waking in the hospital, knowing that he was truly alone in the world, there had been a single message waiting for him. The nurse who gave him the scrap of paper had shrugged and said that someone had called with the message. They hadn’t given their name or any more information, they had just been adamant that the message make it into his hands. Castiel unfolded the paper with numb fingers, uninterested in anything until he saw the name. 

_ Wyatt Fisher.  _

Castiel didn’t recognize the name but that didn’t matter. The name itself, for all it helped him, was unimportant. It was what the name signified which was momentous. 

It was a lead. 

An alias was a slim, almost nonexistent clue. In the wide breadth of the territory the Winchesters covered, it was like throwing a needle into the universe and expecting to hit a mouse from across the world. 

It was enough. 

With this, Castiel could start tracking. It would be difficult, almost impossible, but he was the best in the business for a reason. He’d done more with less throughout the course of his career. With a name and knowledge of what he was tracking? He could find the Winchesters. He could come back. 

Castiel stared down at the name in his hands. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning. 

The corner of Sam’s mouth lifts in a rueful smile, one which Castiel returns. That name was all that kept him going some nights, when terror and need alike coursed through his veins. That name was what dragged him out of the endless spiral of addiction. That name brought him to some of the only real happiness he’s ever known. 

Sam Winchester brought him to some of the only real happiness he’s ever known. 

Castiel can never pay Sam back for what he’s given him. All he can do is live in quiet gratitude and hope that one day, Sam finds the same kind of happiness he has. 

“And if you think that I’m going to stay in the room next to you and listen to your weird, creepy sex noises, then you’re insane. I am _emotionally_ _scarred_ after the last time. I never wanted to hear those noises come out of either of your mouths. All night, I was just trying to sleep. You were audible through noise canceling headphones, you know how impossible that is?”

Sam’s voice fades into comfortable background noise as they clear the alley of bodies. Dean catches his eye as they heft the last body into the dumpster. In his gaze is everything which Castiel adores: violence, mischief, lust, and above all else, a promise to travel every road with him. 

Castiel can’t wait. 

  
  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing to think that it's over. I started this fic about a year ago and abandoned it for various bangs and other projects. When I picked it back up this summer, I just wanted to finish it so I could move it out of the "WIP" folder and into the "Finished" folder. But a weird thing happened--while I was finishing it, I fell in love with it, and y'all were a big part of that. Your enthusiasm for this fic kept me going (and it's been fun to listen to you cursing my name). I hope this ending was everything you wanted. 
> 
> If you want to see more of what I'm working on, you can find me on [tumblr](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I'm mostly salty sometimes funny and sometimes I even post fic. Come join us and hang out. It'll be great, I promise. 
> 
> till next time. much love, doth.


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